I'm thinking of laminating it and hanging it in my closet. Want your own? Download my template here and customize.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Fickle Weather Foiled
I was spending way too long at night trying to decide what I should wear on my run the next morning. Yes, I was consulting weather.com, but since the weather has been beyond fickle this fall in NC, I just kept forgetting my various comfort thresholds. My solution? This chart.
I'm thinking of laminating it and hanging it in my closet. Want your own? Download my template here and customize.
I'm thinking of laminating it and hanging it in my closet. Want your own? Download my template here and customize.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
"OBX" Outer Banks (Marathon)
This was my first ever 26.2. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so mentally (and probably physically) prepared for a race. I have been diligently following my training plan since July; I meticulously planned my nutrition and wardrobe; and, despite an ill-timed bout of the sniffles, I made sure to get good nights’ sleep in the week leading up to the event. I even slept pretty well the night before (but wow, those marathon anxiety dreams are crazy!). It was also a gorgeous day at the Outer Banks: full sun by the 7:20am race start, temps in the mid-50s.
I arrived at the race start about 40 minutes early to get settled and find my spot in corral A. I was feeling a little awesome about being placed in corral A until I learned that there were only 2 corrals. Still, it was corral A!
During the race, from start to mile 19.5-ish, I felt like a rock star. I was keeping my pace on the fast side of my best estimates, even through the 3-ish miles of unpaved trails. My half-marathon split was way better than I expected and actually not even that far off (5 minutes) from my half marathon PR. There were great spectators along the way too, and I was especially energized to see Doug and Colin at mile 17.
At mile 19.5, though, two new and significant things started to happen: first, my left calf (and ankle too at first, but that was short-lived) started doing something strange. It was sort of like a cramp, but more of just a general rebellion; second (and more significantly), the wind got wicked; I think because we were going over more bridges. I expected to have some sunburn, but instead, I actually have windburn on my face.
I was able to keep the calf rebellion in check with some light stretching at the water stations, but I really slowed down, adding about :45 second/mile to my average pace over the last 6+ miles. At first I was kicking myself for keeping the faster pace at the beginning, but I really don’t think that starting slower would have saved me. I was just tired, and it was just windy. In fact, I think this pace saved me because, quite simply, I was able to get the whole think over with sooner (the faster you run, the faster you’re done, right?)
I also don’t think that the problem was nutrition. I drank Gatorade whenever it was offered (even though I got to the point that the Gatorade tasted so bad that I had to rinse my mouth out with water after I drank it), and I drank water (conservatively) at most of the stations that didn’t have Gatorade. I also ate 5 Honey Stingers (or as Karen M. and I call them, “stingahs”) gummies every 6 miles, just like I did with great success on every long training run. So, again, I think I was just tired of running. My super-awesome massage therapist Suzie calls miles 19-23 the “Pain Tunnel,” so I am guessing I’m not the only person who has had this kind of experience.
In the end, I hit right between my dream goal and my realistic-best-case scenario goal. I am a firm believer in the “you run the race you trained for” adage, though. And honestly, I didn’t train for anything better than what I got.
Takeaways: Most of the veteran marathoners I know said that the goal of the first marathon is to finish, and now I get what they meant. This race was an unparalleled experience, and it was seriously one of the hardest things I’ve ever done (and I’ve had thoracic surgery and given birth). Logistically, for the next 26.2, I think that I will try to do more runs on tired legs. Not that anything can prepare you for that Pain-Tunnel feeling, but I’m sure at least some simulation will help.
Gratitude: Not only am I lucky enough to have a husband and son who never complain about the time I put into the exercises, but I also have the best friends/support group in the universe. Some of them have been my ever-reliable running (and life) companions for years now, some got up at the “tramp stamp” of dawn with me (and protected me from small bears), some kept me up to speed on the latest Oiselle fashions, some made me speedy spider posters, and some kept me company on nearly every long run (always reminding me that there was Bean Traders waiting at the finish). I seriously love you all more than I can say. Without you=no marathon.
I arrived at the race start about 40 minutes early to get settled and find my spot in corral A. I was feeling a little awesome about being placed in corral A until I learned that there were only 2 corrals. Still, it was corral A!
During the race, from start to mile 19.5-ish, I felt like a rock star. I was keeping my pace on the fast side of my best estimates, even through the 3-ish miles of unpaved trails. My half-marathon split was way better than I expected and actually not even that far off (5 minutes) from my half marathon PR. There were great spectators along the way too, and I was especially energized to see Doug and Colin at mile 17.
At mile 19.5, though, two new and significant things started to happen: first, my left calf (and ankle too at first, but that was short-lived) started doing something strange. It was sort of like a cramp, but more of just a general rebellion; second (and more significantly), the wind got wicked; I think because we were going over more bridges. I expected to have some sunburn, but instead, I actually have windburn on my face.
I was able to keep the calf rebellion in check with some light stretching at the water stations, but I really slowed down, adding about :45 second/mile to my average pace over the last 6+ miles. At first I was kicking myself for keeping the faster pace at the beginning, but I really don’t think that starting slower would have saved me. I was just tired, and it was just windy. In fact, I think this pace saved me because, quite simply, I was able to get the whole think over with sooner (the faster you run, the faster you’re done, right?)
I also don’t think that the problem was nutrition. I drank Gatorade whenever it was offered (even though I got to the point that the Gatorade tasted so bad that I had to rinse my mouth out with water after I drank it), and I drank water (conservatively) at most of the stations that didn’t have Gatorade. I also ate 5 Honey Stingers (or as Karen M. and I call them, “stingahs”) gummies every 6 miles, just like I did with great success on every long training run. So, again, I think I was just tired of running. My super-awesome massage therapist Suzie calls miles 19-23 the “Pain Tunnel,” so I am guessing I’m not the only person who has had this kind of experience.
In the end, I hit right between my dream goal and my realistic-best-case scenario goal. I am a firm believer in the “you run the race you trained for” adage, though. And honestly, I didn’t train for anything better than what I got.
Takeaways: Most of the veteran marathoners I know said that the goal of the first marathon is to finish, and now I get what they meant. This race was an unparalleled experience, and it was seriously one of the hardest things I’ve ever done (and I’ve had thoracic surgery and given birth). Logistically, for the next 26.2, I think that I will try to do more runs on tired legs. Not that anything can prepare you for that Pain-Tunnel feeling, but I’m sure at least some simulation will help.
Gratitude: Not only am I lucky enough to have a husband and son who never complain about the time I put into the exercises, but I also have the best friends/support group in the universe. Some of them have been my ever-reliable running (and life) companions for years now, some got up at the “tramp stamp” of dawn with me (and protected me from small bears), some kept me up to speed on the latest Oiselle fashions, some made me speedy spider posters, and some kept me company on nearly every long run (always reminding me that there was Bean Traders waiting at the finish). I seriously love you all more than I can say. Without you=no marathon.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Triangle Triathlon
(750m swim/ 17.5 mile bike/ 5k run)
Semi-relevant background note: In 2007, I raced the Triangle Triathlon as the bike leg of a relay team. It was my first triathlon experience, and I was using it as a training stepping stone to my first solo effort. My relay team did well (3rd overall), but I had a lot of unreasonable anxiety about the event. Turns out that I was pregnant, and my hormones were just out of control. So, I put my triathlon career on hold a bit as I’ve detailed in other posts, but I vowed to one day complete the Triangle Tri on my own. Last year I did just that, and this year I did it again.
Race report proper: I went into this race well rested (unusual) and generally well prepared. I say “generally” because I know that I could have done more training on the bike leading up to the race and been smarter on the bike during the race, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
First, the swim (last year’s time: 21:36; this year's time 17:35)
Totally rad improvement, right?! I feel so happy about this. I’ve been swimming 3 times a week very consistently for the last few months (up from twice a week over the winter), and I am so much more comfortable in the water. This is especially remarkable considering that the water temperature in Harris Lake was a balmy 90 degrees on race morning (note: that was 12 degrees warmer than the air temperature). So, I knew that I needed to be even conservative than I normally would be in a tri swim (this time was 8 seconds slower per 100m than my wetsuit-legal Ironman swim, for example). The water was definitely warm. It’s so weird to feel sweaty coming out of the water, but I totally was—sweaty and red like a boiled lobster. Still, I felt like a strong lobster, and I was totally ready to head into the bike.
The bike (last year’s time: 59:13; this year's time 1:02:06)
Not so rad here. Don’t get me wrong: I think that averaging 17 mph is pretty cool, but clearly I can do better because I have. I attribute my “decline” primarily to the fact that I went on a whopping three actual outside rides before this race. I did the rest of the “rides” on my indoor bike. To my credit, though, the reason for this was that I just got a new bike fitting, and I really couldn’t ride before that because my bike was so wickedly uncomfortable. The other issue for this race was nutrition, and here I just made a rookie mistake. I made a game-time decision not to bring Honey Stingers on my ride. I’m not sure why beyond the fact that I had to take my bike pouch off my bike to put it on the car rack. I took off the pouch, said “I won’t need this it’s only a 17 mile ride,” and tossed it aside. Well, at 10 miles into that ride, stomach growling, I really missed that pouch o’ Stingers. And I had to make the call to hold back a bit on the bike to conserve energy for the run, since I could feel myself fading. Still, once again, I felt pretty strong (and comfortable!) during the ride otherwise. I didn’t even get what I call “the googly legs” getting off my bike to head into transition
Finally, the run (last year’s time: 28:31; this year's time 26:32)
Again, so jazzed about this. When I came intro transition off the bike, the first thing I did after grabbing my race number was dig the extra package of Honey Stingers out of my race bag and chop five. This calmed the belly a bit, even if it did add to my transition time. Aside: My transitions were basically the same as last year, but T2 was 30 seconds longer. I ascribe this to the Stinger saga, but I also have to admit that I didn’t practice transitions at all.
The run for this race is a little strange because it’s mostly trail-ish: grass, well-packed gravel/pine straw, some mud. There’s a substantial hill near the mile 2 marker that I suspect feels more substantial because it’s at the end of a July triathlon. And while I was certainly tired and ready to be done, I was also certainly not demolished. This feeling (or lack thereof) makes me almost as happy as the over :30/mile time improvement.
Overall, then, with the longer bike and T2, I took just over 2.5 minutes off my total race time (1:50:28 this year versus 1:52:52 last year). This put me 82/151 (vs. 93/164 last year) for women overall and 23/29 (vs. 25/33 last year) for my age group. This middle-of-the-pack finish doesn’t really bother me (well, not too much) though because I think this race has a really fast field. The top times for women in each leg were 11:17/46:03/20:30 (wow-za).
Takeways: Practice pays off, so I should probably keep hitting the roads every weekend on the bike (the trainer will just have to do for during the week because that’s all I can give cycling right now). Also, it ends up that a good bike fit kind of is like couples therapy for the bike and rider. I don’t hate my bike anymore. I actually even feel some affection for her again, and I suspect that our relationship will continue to grow as we train for the Finish Strong Aqua bike in September.
Finally, I need to stick to my nutrition plans no matter what my car bike rack tries to make me believe. Sheesh.
Race report proper: I went into this race well rested (unusual) and generally well prepared. I say “generally” because I know that I could have done more training on the bike leading up to the race and been smarter on the bike during the race, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
First, the swim (last year’s time: 21:36; this year's time 17:35)
Totally rad improvement, right?! I feel so happy about this. I’ve been swimming 3 times a week very consistently for the last few months (up from twice a week over the winter), and I am so much more comfortable in the water. This is especially remarkable considering that the water temperature in Harris Lake was a balmy 90 degrees on race morning (note: that was 12 degrees warmer than the air temperature). So, I knew that I needed to be even conservative than I normally would be in a tri swim (this time was 8 seconds slower per 100m than my wetsuit-legal Ironman swim, for example). The water was definitely warm. It’s so weird to feel sweaty coming out of the water, but I totally was—sweaty and red like a boiled lobster. Still, I felt like a strong lobster, and I was totally ready to head into the bike.
The bike (last year’s time: 59:13; this year's time 1:02:06)
Not so rad here. Don’t get me wrong: I think that averaging 17 mph is pretty cool, but clearly I can do better because I have. I attribute my “decline” primarily to the fact that I went on a whopping three actual outside rides before this race. I did the rest of the “rides” on my indoor bike. To my credit, though, the reason for this was that I just got a new bike fitting, and I really couldn’t ride before that because my bike was so wickedly uncomfortable. The other issue for this race was nutrition, and here I just made a rookie mistake. I made a game-time decision not to bring Honey Stingers on my ride. I’m not sure why beyond the fact that I had to take my bike pouch off my bike to put it on the car rack. I took off the pouch, said “I won’t need this it’s only a 17 mile ride,” and tossed it aside. Well, at 10 miles into that ride, stomach growling, I really missed that pouch o’ Stingers. And I had to make the call to hold back a bit on the bike to conserve energy for the run, since I could feel myself fading. Still, once again, I felt pretty strong (and comfortable!) during the ride otherwise. I didn’t even get what I call “the googly legs” getting off my bike to head into transition
Finally, the run (last year’s time: 28:31; this year's time 26:32)
Again, so jazzed about this. When I came intro transition off the bike, the first thing I did after grabbing my race number was dig the extra package of Honey Stingers out of my race bag and chop five. This calmed the belly a bit, even if it did add to my transition time. Aside: My transitions were basically the same as last year, but T2 was 30 seconds longer. I ascribe this to the Stinger saga, but I also have to admit that I didn’t practice transitions at all.
The run for this race is a little strange because it’s mostly trail-ish: grass, well-packed gravel/pine straw, some mud. There’s a substantial hill near the mile 2 marker that I suspect feels more substantial because it’s at the end of a July triathlon. And while I was certainly tired and ready to be done, I was also certainly not demolished. This feeling (or lack thereof) makes me almost as happy as the over :30/mile time improvement.
Overall, then, with the longer bike and T2, I took just over 2.5 minutes off my total race time (1:50:28 this year versus 1:52:52 last year). This put me 82/151 (vs. 93/164 last year) for women overall and 23/29 (vs. 25/33 last year) for my age group. This middle-of-the-pack finish doesn’t really bother me (well, not too much) though because I think this race has a really fast field. The top times for women in each leg were 11:17/46:03/20:30 (wow-za).
Takeways: Practice pays off, so I should probably keep hitting the roads every weekend on the bike (the trainer will just have to do for during the week because that’s all I can give cycling right now). Also, it ends up that a good bike fit kind of is like couples therapy for the bike and rider. I don’t hate my bike anymore. I actually even feel some affection for her again, and I suspect that our relationship will continue to grow as we train for the Finish Strong Aqua bike in September.
Finally, I need to stick to my nutrition plans no matter what my car bike rack tries to make me believe. Sheesh.
Monday, July 15, 2013
4 on the 4th (aka my birthday race)
A birthday race seemed like a good way to start my 37th year, and since this race was in Carrboro (not Chapel Hill, where I refuse to race; see Tar Heel 4-miler post below), I figured I’d go for it. Race morning, though, was incredibility hot and humid. So, I just decided to not push myself too hard (because it was my birthday after all): I would go out at a strong but reasonable pace and try to maintain a moderate effort. My goal time when I signed up was 32 minutes. I also, though, decided to run this race without the Garmin and rely thus just on perceived effort. I did end up using a stopwatch, which I was glad for in the end because I was able to at least get mile splits without worrying about “instant” pace.
After Jen Dixon and I did a ½ mile or so warm-up, we wandered toward the start. No one seemed to know exactly where were lining up or when we were starting, so the gun took more than a few of us off guard. The first mile was fast (a lot down hill). I hit the mile marker at 7:30, so I knew I’d best back down. The second mile was more even, but I was still feeling good, so I managed to tackle it in 7:50ish.
From there, though, it was pretty much downhill (not literally, alas). Mile 3 was just plain hard. I was getting really hot and tired, and it was everything I had to finish it in about 8:30. At the mile 3 marker, the watch said 28 minutes exactly, so I knew that I’d have to really motor to get an 8-minute mile at the end. When I realized that the last mile was essentially rolling hills, I decided to just stick with the moderate effort plan and not destroy myself on my birthday. I forgot this plan a bit when I hit the track leading to the finish, so I was feeling really craptastic when I finally arrived at the finish.
Official Time: 33:01.85. I think that I could safely subtract 15-30 seconds for the time it took me to cross the start line after the gun since it wasn’t a chip start, but I’m not going to sweat it. It was my birthday (have I already mentioned that?); I was ultimately just there to have a good time with my friends and get a good start to the day. Still, that time was good enough for 7th in my age group, and it was 18 seconds better than my Tar Heeler 4-miler time, so that’s a pretty nice birthday treat.
I’m also pretty psyched to be so close to my goal given the weather. Everyone was miserable, and almost everyone I talked to said that they lost between 1.5 and 2 minute per mile between miles 1 and 4. In my pre-race photos, I look all happy and smiley; the post-race photos I look like I was just seconds from passing out. I had so much sweat running into my eyes that I had to take my contacts out and walk around the post-race festivities half blind.
Takeways: I think that going into a summer race with realistic and flexible expectations was a smart move. I’m hoping that if I stick with the moderate speed work and consistent low-key, Garmin-less training throughout the summer, my fall race times will be all the better. That said, no more summer races (unless there is swimming involved too).
After Jen Dixon and I did a ½ mile or so warm-up, we wandered toward the start. No one seemed to know exactly where were lining up or when we were starting, so the gun took more than a few of us off guard. The first mile was fast (a lot down hill). I hit the mile marker at 7:30, so I knew I’d best back down. The second mile was more even, but I was still feeling good, so I managed to tackle it in 7:50ish.
From there, though, it was pretty much downhill (not literally, alas). Mile 3 was just plain hard. I was getting really hot and tired, and it was everything I had to finish it in about 8:30. At the mile 3 marker, the watch said 28 minutes exactly, so I knew that I’d have to really motor to get an 8-minute mile at the end. When I realized that the last mile was essentially rolling hills, I decided to just stick with the moderate effort plan and not destroy myself on my birthday. I forgot this plan a bit when I hit the track leading to the finish, so I was feeling really craptastic when I finally arrived at the finish.
Official Time: 33:01.85. I think that I could safely subtract 15-30 seconds for the time it took me to cross the start line after the gun since it wasn’t a chip start, but I’m not going to sweat it. It was my birthday (have I already mentioned that?); I was ultimately just there to have a good time with my friends and get a good start to the day. Still, that time was good enough for 7th in my age group, and it was 18 seconds better than my Tar Heeler 4-miler time, so that’s a pretty nice birthday treat.
I’m also pretty psyched to be so close to my goal given the weather. Everyone was miserable, and almost everyone I talked to said that they lost between 1.5 and 2 minute per mile between miles 1 and 4. In my pre-race photos, I look all happy and smiley; the post-race photos I look like I was just seconds from passing out. I had so much sweat running into my eyes that I had to take my contacts out and walk around the post-race festivities half blind.
Takeways: I think that going into a summer race with realistic and flexible expectations was a smart move. I’m hoping that if I stick with the moderate speed work and consistent low-key, Garmin-less training throughout the summer, my fall race times will be all the better. That said, no more summer races (unless there is swimming involved too).
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Raleigh Ironman 70.3 Relay (1.2 Mile Swim)
Semi-relevant background note #1: When I was 8 years old, I was terrified of the pool and wouldn’t leave the shallow end. Then, my parents told me they would buy me a Cabbage Patch Doll if I learned how to swim a length of the pool and jumped off the diving board into the deep end. This was all the motivation I needed. I even joined the kids swim team that year and won a few 8-and-under division ribbons (the glory days!). Swimming long distances quickly, though, never really crossed my mind until I discovered the exciting world of triathlons.
Semi-relevant background note #2: When I started training for my first triathlon, the thought of racing even 250 yards brought back some of those same 8-year-old fears. But I took some swim lessons (open water and stroke technique) with a coach, committed to swimming once a week, and I made it through. The coach told me, though, “if you want to get better, you have to swim at least 3 times a week.” In the back of my mind, I thought, “what-ever, all I have to do is make it through the swim."
But, it ends up that "just make it through" mentality kind of sucks. The swim sets the stage for the rest of my race. If I'm just getting by in the swim, I'm setting myself up to just get by for the rest of the triathlon. I started realizing this as I was getting ready for the White Lake International last fall, but since I signed up for the Ironman 70.3 Raleigh with Jen Dixon knowing there was a possibility that I would have to do the swim and the bike (thank goodness this did not end up being the case), I knew that I had to do whatever I could to set myself up for a solid swim. Even when I ended up doing just the swim (phew!), I had the added pressure of not wanting to disappoint (read: embarrass) my teammates. Plus, once I stared hitting the pool two or three times a week consistently, I figured out that swimming is actually a lot of fun, as well as great cross-training.
Race report proper (sort of): The night before and the morning of this race, I was just terrified for some reason. I was convinced I was going to drown and leave my child motherless. Totally irrational, I know. Still, it was happening. The parking troubles Josh Dixon and I had in our epic quest to get to the race site did not help my anxiety level. But I calmed down a lot when Jason Klaitman called and told us the race was wet-suit legal and even more once I got to the water and got caught up in the pre-race adrenaline excitement.
And the water felt great. I felt strong the whole way once I got started, and I was really happy with the experience—especially since it was my first wetsuit-legal swim competition. For context, here’s a look at what my swim paces have been since I started caring about swimming:
Triangle Tri (750 m): 2:48/100 meters
White Lake (1500 m): 2:42/100 m
Raleigh 70.3 Relay (1.2 miles): 2:25/100 m
I’m pretty psyched about this improvement. And I think that the relay time could have been better were it not for a crowded heat (the last heat of the race) and some choppy water that made me want to be more conservative. I also got smacked in the head pretty hard by a rouge wrist, and overall I think I drank about 3 gallons worth of Jordan Lake water. Yummy.
I was so happy with the race, in fact, that I signed up for an aquabike race from the same spot in September (slowly making my way to that full half-iron distance). Fingers crossed for more improvement.
Takeaway (in your Dory voice now; don't be shy): just keep swimming. just keep swimming.
Semi-relevant background note #2: When I started training for my first triathlon, the thought of racing even 250 yards brought back some of those same 8-year-old fears. But I took some swim lessons (open water and stroke technique) with a coach, committed to swimming once a week, and I made it through. The coach told me, though, “if you want to get better, you have to swim at least 3 times a week.” In the back of my mind, I thought, “what-ever, all I have to do is make it through the swim."
But, it ends up that "just make it through" mentality kind of sucks. The swim sets the stage for the rest of my race. If I'm just getting by in the swim, I'm setting myself up to just get by for the rest of the triathlon. I started realizing this as I was getting ready for the White Lake International last fall, but since I signed up for the Ironman 70.3 Raleigh with Jen Dixon knowing there was a possibility that I would have to do the swim and the bike (thank goodness this did not end up being the case), I knew that I had to do whatever I could to set myself up for a solid swim. Even when I ended up doing just the swim (phew!), I had the added pressure of not wanting to disappoint (read: embarrass) my teammates. Plus, once I stared hitting the pool two or three times a week consistently, I figured out that swimming is actually a lot of fun, as well as great cross-training.
Race report proper (sort of): The night before and the morning of this race, I was just terrified for some reason. I was convinced I was going to drown and leave my child motherless. Totally irrational, I know. Still, it was happening. The parking troubles Josh Dixon and I had in our epic quest to get to the race site did not help my anxiety level. But I calmed down a lot when Jason Klaitman called and told us the race was wet-suit legal and even more once I got to the water and got caught up in the pre-race adrenaline excitement.
And the water felt great. I felt strong the whole way once I got started, and I was really happy with the experience—especially since it was my first wetsuit-legal swim competition. For context, here’s a look at what my swim paces have been since I started caring about swimming:
Triangle Tri (750 m): 2:48/100 meters
White Lake (1500 m): 2:42/100 m
Raleigh 70.3 Relay (1.2 miles): 2:25/100 m
I’m pretty psyched about this improvement. And I think that the relay time could have been better were it not for a crowded heat (the last heat of the race) and some choppy water that made me want to be more conservative. I also got smacked in the head pretty hard by a rouge wrist, and overall I think I drank about 3 gallons worth of Jordan Lake water. Yummy.
I was so happy with the race, in fact, that I signed up for an aquabike race from the same spot in September (slowly making my way to that full half-iron distance). Fingers crossed for more improvement.
Takeaway (in your Dory voice now; don't be shy): just keep swimming. just keep swimming.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Doughman (2 tamales + 2.9 miles + 1 Locopop)
Since this is an unconventional race, I'm going to do an unconventional race report...
10 things I learned from my Doughman experience:
1. I can make a perfectly acceptable black studded choker out of ribbon, stickers, and self-adhesive Velcro. And even better: I can make four of them in less than an hour.
2. I can run in fishnet stockings.
3. Pink eye shadow and pink hair highlights rock my socks.
4. I love Durham even more than I thought I did. Great Durham moments of the day included: When I ran past a family walking down the sidewalk on Morgan Street, I heard the dad say to his daughter, “Well, this is Durham; you have to expect anything.” Later, a lady walked up to me at the finish area and asked me what was going on. I explained the race, and she replied, “Oh, OK, I knew this wasn’t your average farmer’s market.”
5. I love the people of Bull City Running Company and the Bull City Track Club even more than I thought I did (and it was already a lot). Great BCRC/BCTC moments of the day are too numerous to list.
6. I can eat “like a boss,” and apparently my teammates can as well (special thanks to Kim Chapman-Page for this new phrasal addition to my lexicon).
7. There is a beautiful comic irony in the need to shout “don’t eat the leaves” at a bunch of people eating vegan food (the “leaves” were tamale wrappers).
8. Mushroom and kale tamales, while delicious, are not the best pre-run food.
9. Fruity Locopops might actually the best post-run food.
10. (Last but not least) I would have likely fallen apart (or tossed my cookies) on this run were it not for the companionship and encouragement of the amazing Jen Dixon (thanks, g).
10 things I learned from my Doughman experience:
1. I can make a perfectly acceptable black studded choker out of ribbon, stickers, and self-adhesive Velcro. And even better: I can make four of them in less than an hour.
2. I can run in fishnet stockings.
3. Pink eye shadow and pink hair highlights rock my socks.
4. I love Durham even more than I thought I did. Great Durham moments of the day included: When I ran past a family walking down the sidewalk on Morgan Street, I heard the dad say to his daughter, “Well, this is Durham; you have to expect anything.” Later, a lady walked up to me at the finish area and asked me what was going on. I explained the race, and she replied, “Oh, OK, I knew this wasn’t your average farmer’s market.”
5. I love the people of Bull City Running Company and the Bull City Track Club even more than I thought I did (and it was already a lot). Great BCRC/BCTC moments of the day are too numerous to list.
6. I can eat “like a boss,” and apparently my teammates can as well (special thanks to Kim Chapman-Page for this new phrasal addition to my lexicon).
7. There is a beautiful comic irony in the need to shout “don’t eat the leaves” at a bunch of people eating vegan food (the “leaves” were tamale wrappers).
8. Mushroom and kale tamales, while delicious, are not the best pre-run food.
9. Fruity Locopops might actually the best post-run food.
10. (Last but not least) I would have likely fallen apart (or tossed my cookies) on this run were it not for the companionship and encouragement of the amazing Jen Dixon (thanks, g).
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
The Race I'm Always Racing
I wrote this post weeks ago and have been going back and forth (and back and forth) about whether to actually post it. Today, I decided to just go for it. Gulp.
There are many reasons why I like swimming. But the main reason why I tend to retreat to swimming when I find myself burned out on running is because swimmers don’t use adjectives like “fast” and “slow” to describe their workouts or even their workout groups. At Masters team practices, you are in the “short” lane because you are doing a shorter set or the “long” lane because you are doing a longer set. How much nicer is that?
Of course, we all know that the short lane folks have shorter sets because they don’t swim as fast, but that’s not the point. The focus stays on the nature of the workout, not on trying to evaluate anything about the person doing the workout. I think runners could learn a lot from this. Sure, it looks like we are taking the same approach when we say that the run is “tempo” or “speed” or even “easy,” but the distance often doesn’t really matter is these workouts, it’s the pace. I’m equally likely to obsess over my Garmin data on any of these types of runs.
The problem with this speed focus, I think, is that we can too easily tie a workout’s (or even a race’s) value exclusively to pace. From there, it’s not much of leap to also starting equating pace with overall running success or failure and thus, overall self worth, since, let’s face it, most of use pour our hearts and souls into running. I feel this insidious connection between pace and self worth every time I hear runners that are faster then I am saying that they are “slow.” And they don’t just usually say “slow,” they say something to the effect of “painfully slow” or “I felt like I was walking”—or even worse, “crawling.” And they are usually describing a pace that is at least two minutes per mile faster than mine.
My first impulse when I hear this, honestly, is to cry and toss out my running shoes. It’s a morale killer. But after I’ve had a few hours (sometimes more) to compose myself, I can usually remember the reasons why I don’t do that. Those reasons are best summed up in a quote that Trek bikes posted on their facebook feed a while back, “Don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle.”
Most of the fast runners I know have been running years longer than I have, so there’s that. But not all of them have. I’ve heard stories from folks who have only been running a year but still mange a 1:30 half marathon or a 20-minute 5k. I also recently read an article about a woman who just started running six months ago but got her BQ.
But I don’t think the point of the Trek quote was just time in the shoes. Beginning, middle, and end are terms that we use for journeys, and running is not a singular journey; rather, it is a myriad of interconnected journeys: emotional, physical, psychological, relational, and probably more words that end in “-al” that I just can’t think of right now. And all of these interconnected journeys are very intimate and complex.
Not many people know (not anymore!) that I have a chronic neuromuscular autoimmune disease, Myasthenia Gravis. I was diagnosed in 1994, at which point, I was suffering muscle weakness to the point that I could barely brush my own hair, walk up a flight of stairs without falling, or speak continuously for more than a couple of minutes. My left eyelid consistently drooped shut without warning, and I couldn’t even tighten the lid on a jar of applesauce.
After thoracic surgery to remove a defective gland and after almost a decade of immunosuppressive therapy, I stabilized, and in 2006, I resolved to try to be medication free. As part of this resolution, I began running and cycling, and I eventually worked my way up to a 5k. Three miles, though, was my wall. Still, I took my last pill in January of 2007. Six months later, when I was pregnant with my son, the doctors told me that my condition made my pregnancy high-risk, and they advised against running. So, I stopped. For three years.
On my son’s second birthday, I put my running shoes back on. The miles came much easier than they had before; I was faster than I’d ever been before. No one knows why. And I’m still getting better. Better with each race. Better than I ever thought I could be. I may not get better as fast as other runners get better, but “better” for me isn’t just about outrunning a PR, it’s also about outrunning a disease. This means that my the physical journey isn’t going to match up with many other runners.’ My emotional and psychological journeys have also inevitably been tied to this alternate physical experience. And everyone has something like this, something that makes one or more of their journeys just a little different than everyone else’s. Everyone’s beginnings and middles are in different places.
The neurologist declared me “in remission” last year, and as I’ve continued to set PRs and try new types of races and distances, I update her on my progress. She continues to tell me that she has no other patients who can do what I do and, in fact, that there are very few, if any, Myasthenia patients anywhere who can do what I do. But she also reminds me that remission can be temporary; that I probably will stay well, but there is a chance that I won’t. I could wake up tomorrow and suddenly be back to where I was in 1994. So, I try to remember that every run should be precious to me because it could be my last. It shouldn’t matter if I do that run at a “fast” pace or a “slow” one—at least I’m out there, on the journey.
There are many reasons why I like swimming. But the main reason why I tend to retreat to swimming when I find myself burned out on running is because swimmers don’t use adjectives like “fast” and “slow” to describe their workouts or even their workout groups. At Masters team practices, you are in the “short” lane because you are doing a shorter set or the “long” lane because you are doing a longer set. How much nicer is that?
Of course, we all know that the short lane folks have shorter sets because they don’t swim as fast, but that’s not the point. The focus stays on the nature of the workout, not on trying to evaluate anything about the person doing the workout. I think runners could learn a lot from this. Sure, it looks like we are taking the same approach when we say that the run is “tempo” or “speed” or even “easy,” but the distance often doesn’t really matter is these workouts, it’s the pace. I’m equally likely to obsess over my Garmin data on any of these types of runs.
The problem with this speed focus, I think, is that we can too easily tie a workout’s (or even a race’s) value exclusively to pace. From there, it’s not much of leap to also starting equating pace with overall running success or failure and thus, overall self worth, since, let’s face it, most of use pour our hearts and souls into running. I feel this insidious connection between pace and self worth every time I hear runners that are faster then I am saying that they are “slow.” And they don’t just usually say “slow,” they say something to the effect of “painfully slow” or “I felt like I was walking”—or even worse, “crawling.” And they are usually describing a pace that is at least two minutes per mile faster than mine.
My first impulse when I hear this, honestly, is to cry and toss out my running shoes. It’s a morale killer. But after I’ve had a few hours (sometimes more) to compose myself, I can usually remember the reasons why I don’t do that. Those reasons are best summed up in a quote that Trek bikes posted on their facebook feed a while back, “Don’t judge your beginning by someone else’s middle.”
Most of the fast runners I know have been running years longer than I have, so there’s that. But not all of them have. I’ve heard stories from folks who have only been running a year but still mange a 1:30 half marathon or a 20-minute 5k. I also recently read an article about a woman who just started running six months ago but got her BQ.
But I don’t think the point of the Trek quote was just time in the shoes. Beginning, middle, and end are terms that we use for journeys, and running is not a singular journey; rather, it is a myriad of interconnected journeys: emotional, physical, psychological, relational, and probably more words that end in “-al” that I just can’t think of right now. And all of these interconnected journeys are very intimate and complex.
Not many people know (not anymore!) that I have a chronic neuromuscular autoimmune disease, Myasthenia Gravis. I was diagnosed in 1994, at which point, I was suffering muscle weakness to the point that I could barely brush my own hair, walk up a flight of stairs without falling, or speak continuously for more than a couple of minutes. My left eyelid consistently drooped shut without warning, and I couldn’t even tighten the lid on a jar of applesauce.
After thoracic surgery to remove a defective gland and after almost a decade of immunosuppressive therapy, I stabilized, and in 2006, I resolved to try to be medication free. As part of this resolution, I began running and cycling, and I eventually worked my way up to a 5k. Three miles, though, was my wall. Still, I took my last pill in January of 2007. Six months later, when I was pregnant with my son, the doctors told me that my condition made my pregnancy high-risk, and they advised against running. So, I stopped. For three years.
On my son’s second birthday, I put my running shoes back on. The miles came much easier than they had before; I was faster than I’d ever been before. No one knows why. And I’m still getting better. Better with each race. Better than I ever thought I could be. I may not get better as fast as other runners get better, but “better” for me isn’t just about outrunning a PR, it’s also about outrunning a disease. This means that my the physical journey isn’t going to match up with many other runners.’ My emotional and psychological journeys have also inevitably been tied to this alternate physical experience. And everyone has something like this, something that makes one or more of their journeys just a little different than everyone else’s. Everyone’s beginnings and middles are in different places.
The neurologist declared me “in remission” last year, and as I’ve continued to set PRs and try new types of races and distances, I update her on my progress. She continues to tell me that she has no other patients who can do what I do and, in fact, that there are very few, if any, Myasthenia patients anywhere who can do what I do. But she also reminds me that remission can be temporary; that I probably will stay well, but there is a chance that I won’t. I could wake up tomorrow and suddenly be back to where I was in 1994. So, I try to remember that every run should be precious to me because it could be my last. It shouldn’t matter if I do that run at a “fast” pace or a “slow” one—at least I’m out there, on the journey.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Fleet Feet Sports 4-mile Run (aka the Tar Heel 4-miler)
After a quick chat with soon-to-be-first-place Allie, I lined up near the middle of the crowd. This ended up being a quasi-bad idea because many of the nice folks directly in front of me were in more of a “social jog” mode than a “run this race” mode. But the road was pretty wide after we crossed the timing mat, so I was able to take off and pass some folks, which is always a nice confidence booster.
My Garmin also reset itself (user error) right before the start, and I was about .5 miles in before it got to working again; thus, I don’t have perfectly accurate split data. I shall therefore simply divide this race into two distinct phases: pre- and post-Laurel Hill.
Pre-Laurel Hill: The 2.5 miles before the hill were just groovy: a big downhill, a couple of little uphills, no problems. I was feeling strong; legs were happy. According to the Garmin data I do have, I ran mile .5-ish to 1.5-ish in an average pace of 7:14! Official time for the pre-Laurel Hill segment of the race was 19:06, which, assuming 2.5 miles distance, means an average pace of 7:38.
And briefly, the Laure Hill: it was horrible and it seemed to last forever. I felt like I was barely keeping it together. I slowed down even when I saw it coming. It was that scary.
Post-Laurel Hill: My legs were pretty tired, my stomach felt icky, and I was a little demoralized by some of the paces I’d seen flash on my Garmin when I’d dared to look at it back on the hill because they really weren't what I was hoping for. Basically, I thought the race was already shot, goal-wise, so I was somewhat phoning it in. There were also a few more little uphills, including one in a parking garage(?) that led into the stadium. I have no idea what my pace was on this last part, but based on what the Garmin says (I also forgot to stop it at the finish) and based on the time coming off the hill, I’d say it was close to 8:15/8:30.
My official chip time was 33:19, which I am totally shocked to report was good enough for 3rd place in my age group.
Takeaways: I have officially resolved to not run any more races in Chapel Hill. It’s too hilly, and it’s just a little strange for me to race on campus because I work there. Also, considering that basically ¼ of this race was that godforsaken hill, I’ve decided not to let the overall pace here be an exclusive indicator of my performance. Looking at the first 2.5 miles, I feel like I see improvement, even if just a little, over my last 5k. As such, I’m going to stick with my shorter-race focus for the foreseeable future.
My Garmin also reset itself (user error) right before the start, and I was about .5 miles in before it got to working again; thus, I don’t have perfectly accurate split data. I shall therefore simply divide this race into two distinct phases: pre- and post-Laurel Hill.
Pre-Laurel Hill: The 2.5 miles before the hill were just groovy: a big downhill, a couple of little uphills, no problems. I was feeling strong; legs were happy. According to the Garmin data I do have, I ran mile .5-ish to 1.5-ish in an average pace of 7:14! Official time for the pre-Laurel Hill segment of the race was 19:06, which, assuming 2.5 miles distance, means an average pace of 7:38.
And briefly, the Laure Hill: it was horrible and it seemed to last forever. I felt like I was barely keeping it together. I slowed down even when I saw it coming. It was that scary.
Post-Laurel Hill: My legs were pretty tired, my stomach felt icky, and I was a little demoralized by some of the paces I’d seen flash on my Garmin when I’d dared to look at it back on the hill because they really weren't what I was hoping for. Basically, I thought the race was already shot, goal-wise, so I was somewhat phoning it in. There were also a few more little uphills, including one in a parking garage(?) that led into the stadium. I have no idea what my pace was on this last part, but based on what the Garmin says (I also forgot to stop it at the finish) and based on the time coming off the hill, I’d say it was close to 8:15/8:30.
My official chip time was 33:19, which I am totally shocked to report was good enough for 3rd place in my age group.
Takeaways: I have officially resolved to not run any more races in Chapel Hill. It’s too hilly, and it’s just a little strange for me to race on campus because I work there. Also, considering that basically ¼ of this race was that godforsaken hill, I’ve decided not to let the overall pace here be an exclusive indicator of my performance. Looking at the first 2.5 miles, I feel like I see improvement, even if just a little, over my last 5k. As such, I’m going to stick with my shorter-race focus for the foreseeable future.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Tobacco Road (Half Marathon)
We probably couldn’t have asked for better weather this morning. It was a mild 54 degrees at race start (and basically throughout), so I finally got a chance to race in the singlet/arm warmers combo, which I think is super cool (plus Jen Dixon and I just got new matching pink arm warmers; they coordinate with the pink on my shoes; they are totally rad; and yes, I still say “rad”).
Jen and I started with the 1:50 pace group (1:50 was our goal time), but we quickly left them behind and settled into a zippy pace. We were both trying not to look at our Garmins (but who can resist, really?) because we knew we were going faster than we intended. We were shooting for a 8:15 pace; we were closer to 7:45-8. After about three miles of this, Jen was still feeling good, but I knew I couldn’t stay strong at that pace, so I told her to leave me and not look back. Friends don’t let friends miss out on huge PRs.
Until about mile six, I was able to keep myself going at about an 8:15 pace. Then, I began to really notice some stabbing (no drama!) pain in my left foot and left hip, and as the pain intensified, my pace slowed. A blister was the culprit on the foot; the left hip was this crazy IT band/ankle/hamstring “involvement” (to quote the wise Ellen) I’ve been nursing for a couple weeks (I refuse to call it an injury because it’s not). I felt from the beginning that something was off with my foot (my orthotic was rubbing for some unknown reason), but I think that as the hip got more sensitive and I adjusted my gait to compensate, it put more pressure on the foot. It was a vicious, vicious cycle.
So, at mile 9-ish, when I noticed that I’d slowed to a 9-ish pace (I caught myself actually shouting “No!” at my watch because I had really hoped for better) and quite a few people were passing me, I started walking. I walked for just for a minute, and it seemed to help—until the 1:50 pace guy passed me. I’m not going to front: I was totally bummed. I started to run again and tried to catch up, but I just couldn’t get there. And I watched my goal bounce away (literally, since the guy was carrying a stick with a yellow balloon that had 1:50 written on it).
I ran again until the aid station around mile 10, where I walked for another minute to drink some water and eat the rest of my Stinger gummies, and I resolved to run the rest as fast as I could no matter how bad it hurt (the “I’m-so-over-this” race plan). The final stretch has two pretty solid hills, but I was able to stay focused and get over them (it helped that there were some chatty doctor dudes behind me telling interesting stories about organ transplants). And I was able to keep the last mile around 8:30 to finish up with an official time of 1:51:17. Clearly, this was not the 1:50 I was hoping for, but it’s still a PR at little over 3 minutes better than my last half (1:54:54 at the treacherously mountainous Skinny Turkey on Thanksgiving day), almost 8 minutes better than my 2012 Tobacco Road time, and almost 16 minutes better than my 2011 Tobacco Road time. So, I’m telling myself to just be happy about it and eat my race cake.
My only takeaway for this race is that I’ve decided I need to take a break from distance racing. My heart was not in this race. I was not and still am not at all excited about it. I am, on the other hand, excited about some shorter races I have coming up. While I know that I’ll still have long runs on my schedule every week, I’m going to keep the long races off the calendar until next year so I can get control of my headspace about them. It will happen; I will be back (but I’ll make sure my comeback is on or near a beach).
Jen and I started with the 1:50 pace group (1:50 was our goal time), but we quickly left them behind and settled into a zippy pace. We were both trying not to look at our Garmins (but who can resist, really?) because we knew we were going faster than we intended. We were shooting for a 8:15 pace; we were closer to 7:45-8. After about three miles of this, Jen was still feeling good, but I knew I couldn’t stay strong at that pace, so I told her to leave me and not look back. Friends don’t let friends miss out on huge PRs.
Until about mile six, I was able to keep myself going at about an 8:15 pace. Then, I began to really notice some stabbing (no drama!) pain in my left foot and left hip, and as the pain intensified, my pace slowed. A blister was the culprit on the foot; the left hip was this crazy IT band/ankle/hamstring “involvement” (to quote the wise Ellen) I’ve been nursing for a couple weeks (I refuse to call it an injury because it’s not). I felt from the beginning that something was off with my foot (my orthotic was rubbing for some unknown reason), but I think that as the hip got more sensitive and I adjusted my gait to compensate, it put more pressure on the foot. It was a vicious, vicious cycle.
So, at mile 9-ish, when I noticed that I’d slowed to a 9-ish pace (I caught myself actually shouting “No!” at my watch because I had really hoped for better) and quite a few people were passing me, I started walking. I walked for just for a minute, and it seemed to help—until the 1:50 pace guy passed me. I’m not going to front: I was totally bummed. I started to run again and tried to catch up, but I just couldn’t get there. And I watched my goal bounce away (literally, since the guy was carrying a stick with a yellow balloon that had 1:50 written on it).
I ran again until the aid station around mile 10, where I walked for another minute to drink some water and eat the rest of my Stinger gummies, and I resolved to run the rest as fast as I could no matter how bad it hurt (the “I’m-so-over-this” race plan). The final stretch has two pretty solid hills, but I was able to stay focused and get over them (it helped that there were some chatty doctor dudes behind me telling interesting stories about organ transplants). And I was able to keep the last mile around 8:30 to finish up with an official time of 1:51:17. Clearly, this was not the 1:50 I was hoping for, but it’s still a PR at little over 3 minutes better than my last half (1:54:54 at the treacherously mountainous Skinny Turkey on Thanksgiving day), almost 8 minutes better than my 2012 Tobacco Road time, and almost 16 minutes better than my 2011 Tobacco Road time. So, I’m telling myself to just be happy about it and eat my race cake.
My only takeaway for this race is that I’ve decided I need to take a break from distance racing. My heart was not in this race. I was not and still am not at all excited about it. I am, on the other hand, excited about some shorter races I have coming up. While I know that I’ll still have long runs on my schedule every week, I’m going to keep the long races off the calendar until next year so I can get control of my headspace about them. It will happen; I will be back (but I’ll make sure my comeback is on or near a beach).
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Cary Short Course Duathlon
(2.5-mile run/17.65-mile bike/2.5-mile run)
I hesitated to write this report right away because I am not in a very good place about this morning’s race. But, in my day job as writing teacher I often tell students that it is important to write “where you are” and “what you know”—even if you are not where you want to be, and you feel like you don’t know much. I am taking my own advice.
The start for this race is kind of a mess. Strike that: it is a complete hot mess. Everyone lines up on the narrow trail around the park to start together (long and short course together even. Last year, they split us up by race, which made for a slightly more efficient start). There is also no start timing mat, and despite the fact that the race directors tell faster folks to head to the front, there is no real sense of where that is because the space is so silly. So, I ended up starting behind a crowd of causal joggers and trying to weave my way to a better spot once the race got going. For a 2.5-mile leg, this is an unfortunate waste of time because it took me a solid quarter mile to settle into a pace that I was happy with. At this point, it was 7:30 (Side note: who has two thumbs and never thought she’d put the words “settle in” before 7:30 pace? This gal.)
I wanted to keep that pace for a long as I could because I knew (since I did this race last year) that there were two uber-giant hills at the end of leg and that I’d need to back-off significantly when I got to them. And I did, in fact, drop to about 8 for that last half-mile. So, in the end, the official pace for Run 1, with all the aforementioned “slowing” factors considered, was 7:58 (2nd in my age group!). Last year, my official pace on the leg was 8:23. I’m happy, therefore, with the progress—especially given this year’s slower start. Even in my current state of mind, I can give myself that a 25-second/mile improvement over the course of a year is something I need to just go ahead and be proud of.
Then there was the bike course, and this story takes a bad turn. My dirty little secret is that I really don’t like cycling. I kind of despise it, in fact. I used to like it, but somewhere along the line I just started to hate it. It’s expensive; it’s hard to talk to friends when you ride together; and it’s very weather- and time-sensitive, which as a working parent, I have less-than-zero tolerance for. So you are probably thinking, “Gee, JLa, maybe if you changed your attitude you might improve your performance.” I’m working on it; I promise. But for today, the bike leg just demoralized me. The weather was chilly (low 40s) and breezy (race stuff was blowing all over the place), so this made a challenging, hilly course even tougher. People I’d schooled on the first run just kept sauntering past me, and I just fell apart mentally. I kept thinking: “Go big or go home? I choose go home.”
I was able to pull myself together by focusing on looking for horses and cows to count (6 and 3 respectively) and planning what I was going to write in this race report, but I was beyond relieved to pull into T2 and the second run leg. As anticipated, Run 2 was a little slower. I had what I call “the googly legs” after getting off the bike, so my pace for the first quarter mile was, according to the Garmin, about 8:45. I gradually moved myself closer to 8:15 (which was the slower end of my probably unrealistic goal pace for the second leg), and again, I had to back off a bit for the ending hills. Based on my Garmin reports, my pace for this leg was 8:30; last year’s official Run 2 pace was 8:55.
I actually have no official splits for the cycle or Run 2 because apparently my timing chip didn’t work after the first transition, so the race results just show me leaving T1 and then finishing the race. Oh well. Seems a fitting mishap for this experience.
In the end, my overall time was 1:51:36, about 3 minutes slower than last year. Part of the reason this time causes me such angst is that it is the first time (at least that I can remember) since I started seriously running and multi-sporting that I have not improved from a past race time. I know, I know, it’s really unrealistic to expect a PR in every race. Still, the clock is there; it cruelly taunts us sometimes. Bright side: I always eat cake on race day, and a PR is not a requirement for cake consumption.
Takeaways: I need to decide if I am going to invest in the training equivalent of couples' therapy for my relationship with cycling. I have already registered for the Triangle Tri in July, so perhaps I’ll try to spend some QT on the bike and make a call after that race. Running wise, this really reaffirmed my excitement for the shorter races as well as my commitment to keep pushing on the speed and tempo work.
Bonus: This was the first race I’ve been to in the past 6 months that actually had perfectly ripe bananas rather than inedible neon green ones (can anyone actually eat those and live to talk about it?). Mega props to the race organizers on that one.
The start for this race is kind of a mess. Strike that: it is a complete hot mess. Everyone lines up on the narrow trail around the park to start together (long and short course together even. Last year, they split us up by race, which made for a slightly more efficient start). There is also no start timing mat, and despite the fact that the race directors tell faster folks to head to the front, there is no real sense of where that is because the space is so silly. So, I ended up starting behind a crowd of causal joggers and trying to weave my way to a better spot once the race got going. For a 2.5-mile leg, this is an unfortunate waste of time because it took me a solid quarter mile to settle into a pace that I was happy with. At this point, it was 7:30 (Side note: who has two thumbs and never thought she’d put the words “settle in” before 7:30 pace? This gal.)
I wanted to keep that pace for a long as I could because I knew (since I did this race last year) that there were two uber-giant hills at the end of leg and that I’d need to back-off significantly when I got to them. And I did, in fact, drop to about 8 for that last half-mile. So, in the end, the official pace for Run 1, with all the aforementioned “slowing” factors considered, was 7:58 (2nd in my age group!). Last year, my official pace on the leg was 8:23. I’m happy, therefore, with the progress—especially given this year’s slower start. Even in my current state of mind, I can give myself that a 25-second/mile improvement over the course of a year is something I need to just go ahead and be proud of.
Then there was the bike course, and this story takes a bad turn. My dirty little secret is that I really don’t like cycling. I kind of despise it, in fact. I used to like it, but somewhere along the line I just started to hate it. It’s expensive; it’s hard to talk to friends when you ride together; and it’s very weather- and time-sensitive, which as a working parent, I have less-than-zero tolerance for. So you are probably thinking, “Gee, JLa, maybe if you changed your attitude you might improve your performance.” I’m working on it; I promise. But for today, the bike leg just demoralized me. The weather was chilly (low 40s) and breezy (race stuff was blowing all over the place), so this made a challenging, hilly course even tougher. People I’d schooled on the first run just kept sauntering past me, and I just fell apart mentally. I kept thinking: “Go big or go home? I choose go home.”
I was able to pull myself together by focusing on looking for horses and cows to count (6 and 3 respectively) and planning what I was going to write in this race report, but I was beyond relieved to pull into T2 and the second run leg. As anticipated, Run 2 was a little slower. I had what I call “the googly legs” after getting off the bike, so my pace for the first quarter mile was, according to the Garmin, about 8:45. I gradually moved myself closer to 8:15 (which was the slower end of my probably unrealistic goal pace for the second leg), and again, I had to back off a bit for the ending hills. Based on my Garmin reports, my pace for this leg was 8:30; last year’s official Run 2 pace was 8:55.
I actually have no official splits for the cycle or Run 2 because apparently my timing chip didn’t work after the first transition, so the race results just show me leaving T1 and then finishing the race. Oh well. Seems a fitting mishap for this experience.
In the end, my overall time was 1:51:36, about 3 minutes slower than last year. Part of the reason this time causes me such angst is that it is the first time (at least that I can remember) since I started seriously running and multi-sporting that I have not improved from a past race time. I know, I know, it’s really unrealistic to expect a PR in every race. Still, the clock is there; it cruelly taunts us sometimes. Bright side: I always eat cake on race day, and a PR is not a requirement for cake consumption.
Takeaways: I need to decide if I am going to invest in the training equivalent of couples' therapy for my relationship with cycling. I have already registered for the Triangle Tri in July, so perhaps I’ll try to spend some QT on the bike and make a call after that race. Running wise, this really reaffirmed my excitement for the shorter races as well as my commitment to keep pushing on the speed and tempo work.
Bonus: This was the first race I’ve been to in the past 6 months that actually had perfectly ripe bananas rather than inedible neon green ones (can anyone actually eat those and live to talk about it?). Mega props to the race organizers on that one.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Miles for Missions (5K)
I resolved in November 2012, after doing my first 5K in over 5 years, to do a 5k every 3 months. This decision landed me at the 2nd Annual Miles for Missions 5k, hosted by Grace Church in North Raleigh. Pretty nice location, good cause, reasonable race fee. Main goal: beat November’s 5k PR of 24:21, ideally with a 24:00.
I registered early, so I didn’t really wonder about the small number of folks signed up at the time, but when I checked the “competitive” roster again a few days before the race and saw that the number was still pretty low (about 35), I started to worry a little. I’ve heard that small races can be a great opportunity to get an age-group award, but in the back of my mind I was thinking the math could also very easily add up to heightened embarrassment/disappointment in a fast field. Also, this being my very first race in the official BCTC singlet, I was feeling some pressure.
And did I mention that it was pouring rain. . . and 37 degrees?
I arrived at the race site about 30 minutes before start, got my packet, and brought it back to the car, creating a circumlocutious route so that I could get about a one-mile warm-up out of the trips. At start time, I first lined up near the front because there was space there (most folks were being modest and heading toward the back). Everyone there seemed to know each other (most of them went to the church, I gather), but one nice fella started telling me the general break-down of last year’s results so I would know approximately where to situate myself (about 20-25 people back). According to the official results, there were 70 competitive runners overall; I’d guess another 35-40 recreational.
I started the race at my “holy cow, it’s really cold, and I would do anything to not be running right now” pace, which—according to my Garmin—is about 6:40/mile. I didn’t even know I had that in me. After about a quarter of a mile of this, I stared to feel the hurt and get a little warmer, so I slowed down to closer to 7:45. Then, around 1.5 miles, there was an awkward turn around in an apartment complex and a long-ish hill, and while in the middle of this hill, I was shocked to see my Garmin say I backed down to 8:40/mile. I don’t know how long I was at that pace because I refused to look at my watch again until I knew I was going faster. My toes and hands were numb, I was soaking wet, and a 12-year-old passed me. Nevertheless, I somehow channeled enough motivation and strength (the downhill helped) to kick it back up in the 7:35-7:45 range and finish out the race.
As I approached the finish, I saw how close I was to 24 minutes on the nose and pushed as hard as I could as I watched those last 10 seconds count down. Alas, I was just a little short; my time was 24:04. This was good enough, though, for my first-ever age group win in a running race: first place in the Women 30-39 category (11th among the women, and 22nd overall).
The takeaways: First, speed work really helps me, so I’m guessing that more hill work would too. Almost every time I got to even a little hill, folks would pass me but then I’d catch back up (usually plus some) on the next straightaway. I was thinking that I was getting solid hill practice by running in RTP so much, but, clearly, that’s not cutting it. Second, I think that I’m starting to understand what it means—and what it feels like—to really push myself physically (that is, beyond a perceived even not-so-comfortable comfort zone) for a sustained effort (i.e., not just little sprints). It kind of feels like crap at the time, but it’s super revealing both performance-wise and emotionally. More on that as I figure it out how to explain and apply it.
Finally, I’ve decided that the BCTC singlet is not only stylish, but also a good luck charm; maybe I’ll win an age-group award every time I wear it?! A girl can dream.
I registered early, so I didn’t really wonder about the small number of folks signed up at the time, but when I checked the “competitive” roster again a few days before the race and saw that the number was still pretty low (about 35), I started to worry a little. I’ve heard that small races can be a great opportunity to get an age-group award, but in the back of my mind I was thinking the math could also very easily add up to heightened embarrassment/disappointment in a fast field. Also, this being my very first race in the official BCTC singlet, I was feeling some pressure.
And did I mention that it was pouring rain. . . and 37 degrees?
I arrived at the race site about 30 minutes before start, got my packet, and brought it back to the car, creating a circumlocutious route so that I could get about a one-mile warm-up out of the trips. At start time, I first lined up near the front because there was space there (most folks were being modest and heading toward the back). Everyone there seemed to know each other (most of them went to the church, I gather), but one nice fella started telling me the general break-down of last year’s results so I would know approximately where to situate myself (about 20-25 people back). According to the official results, there were 70 competitive runners overall; I’d guess another 35-40 recreational.
I started the race at my “holy cow, it’s really cold, and I would do anything to not be running right now” pace, which—according to my Garmin—is about 6:40/mile. I didn’t even know I had that in me. After about a quarter of a mile of this, I stared to feel the hurt and get a little warmer, so I slowed down to closer to 7:45. Then, around 1.5 miles, there was an awkward turn around in an apartment complex and a long-ish hill, and while in the middle of this hill, I was shocked to see my Garmin say I backed down to 8:40/mile. I don’t know how long I was at that pace because I refused to look at my watch again until I knew I was going faster. My toes and hands were numb, I was soaking wet, and a 12-year-old passed me. Nevertheless, I somehow channeled enough motivation and strength (the downhill helped) to kick it back up in the 7:35-7:45 range and finish out the race.
As I approached the finish, I saw how close I was to 24 minutes on the nose and pushed as hard as I could as I watched those last 10 seconds count down. Alas, I was just a little short; my time was 24:04. This was good enough, though, for my first-ever age group win in a running race: first place in the Women 30-39 category (11th among the women, and 22nd overall).
The takeaways: First, speed work really helps me, so I’m guessing that more hill work would too. Almost every time I got to even a little hill, folks would pass me but then I’d catch back up (usually plus some) on the next straightaway. I was thinking that I was getting solid hill practice by running in RTP so much, but, clearly, that’s not cutting it. Second, I think that I’m starting to understand what it means—and what it feels like—to really push myself physically (that is, beyond a perceived even not-so-comfortable comfort zone) for a sustained effort (i.e., not just little sprints). It kind of feels like crap at the time, but it’s super revealing both performance-wise and emotionally. More on that as I figure it out how to explain and apply it.
Finally, I’ve decided that the BCTC singlet is not only stylish, but also a good luck charm; maybe I’ll win an age-group award every time I wear it?! A girl can dream.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Massacre, aka Run 4, Relay (4 x 1.6 miles)
I signed up for the race with some awesome moms from my son’s school; the goal was just do something spontaneous and empowering. We really weren’t even totally clear on what we were signing up for. So, once I realized that it was going to be about 3.5 hours of 1.6 mile loops with about 30 minutes between each loop, I decided to just treat the running part of the race as my speed work for the week; the downtime was my social splurge.
Since the running part was still over 6 miles, though, I knew that I shouldn’t try to hit each lap at say, mile-repeat pace, but I wanted to push myself a little. So, I aimed for the 7:45/mile pace I had in my last 5k race. I wore my GPS so as to check this pace, and I’m really glad I did because one, it was really easy to almost break down on the two rather giant hills at the beginning of each lap, and two, my teammates and I were all about the love when it came to passing the baton—not about efficiency. We hugged on each lap and exchanged encouraging words, and a couple of times we didn’t notice our runner coming in so there was a little delay on the transitions.
According to my watch, I was right at 7:45/mile for laps one and two. Lap three felt a little slower, but I forgot to stop my watch until even after our long transition, so best guess, it was closer to 8/mile. And I also forgot to stop my watch on the last loop, but the official results say I did 7:58/mile, which I think is pretty accurate. My team, the Fast Friends, ended up 11th out the women’s teams (just 20 seconds shy of 10th!).
So, the takeaway for me is that I need to do more mile repeats, and that I need to do more miles when I do. I have a 5k in 2 weeks, and I was really hoping to beat my recent PR of 24:21, but I’m a little worried about that based on this performance. I also kept forgetting to warm up between laps since I was too focused on making sure I was properly hydrated and fed (it's an obsession of mine). I do think, though, that I need pacing on a 5k, and there was hardly anyone ever with me during this relay. On the bright side, I do feel pretty good that I was able to keep a sub-8/mile average pace for the majority of my loops, especially given the aforementioned two giant hills, and—most importantly—I had a really, really good time; I got to hang out with some fun and inspiring women and cheer on the BCTC Mad Women as they kicked some butt. Bonus: I learned that I will not, in fact, die if I run after having a latte (a double even)!
Since the running part was still over 6 miles, though, I knew that I shouldn’t try to hit each lap at say, mile-repeat pace, but I wanted to push myself a little. So, I aimed for the 7:45/mile pace I had in my last 5k race. I wore my GPS so as to check this pace, and I’m really glad I did because one, it was really easy to almost break down on the two rather giant hills at the beginning of each lap, and two, my teammates and I were all about the love when it came to passing the baton—not about efficiency. We hugged on each lap and exchanged encouraging words, and a couple of times we didn’t notice our runner coming in so there was a little delay on the transitions.
According to my watch, I was right at 7:45/mile for laps one and two. Lap three felt a little slower, but I forgot to stop my watch until even after our long transition, so best guess, it was closer to 8/mile. And I also forgot to stop my watch on the last loop, but the official results say I did 7:58/mile, which I think is pretty accurate. My team, the Fast Friends, ended up 11th out the women’s teams (just 20 seconds shy of 10th!).
So, the takeaway for me is that I need to do more mile repeats, and that I need to do more miles when I do. I have a 5k in 2 weeks, and I was really hoping to beat my recent PR of 24:21, but I’m a little worried about that based on this performance. I also kept forgetting to warm up between laps since I was too focused on making sure I was properly hydrated and fed (it's an obsession of mine). I do think, though, that I need pacing on a 5k, and there was hardly anyone ever with me during this relay. On the bright side, I do feel pretty good that I was able to keep a sub-8/mile average pace for the majority of my loops, especially given the aforementioned two giant hills, and—most importantly—I had a really, really good time; I got to hang out with some fun and inspiring women and cheer on the BCTC Mad Women as they kicked some butt. Bonus: I learned that I will not, in fact, die if I run after having a latte (a double even)!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Little River Trail Run (10 miles)
Semi-relevant background note #1: I don’t think of trail races as ‘races,’ per se; I like to think of them as just challenging ‘runs.’ I don’t usually wear a watch or a Garmin, and I don’t (read: try not to) worry about speed. Instead, I try to focus on form, on staying upright, and on admiring the general splendor of the outdoors. If there were a non-timed option, I would totally take it. I think of these runs as my ‘tune-ups.’ I don’t hit the trails often enough, I know.
Semi-relevant background note #2: I had frost bite once when I was 12 (long. story.), so it takes my toes just shy of forever (5-ish miles in a cold race) to be not totally numb.
Race report proper: When I arrived at the race site about 45 minutes before game time, the car temp said 27. This is v.chilly to me. I suspect it just was at or just above freezing when we actually started. I really didn’t want to get out of my car, and I was actually cursing myself for signing up for a January race. I decided to be tough, though, and just get over it.
I didn’t think I knew anyone else who had signed up, but I ran into a very nice woman that I had worked with in grad school who kindly invited me to start the race with her and her running buddies. We started near the back of the pack because, honestly, that’s where the sun was when everyone was lining up. We had a steady, conservative pace, which worked out well for me because I was really having difficulty feeling stable on the trails with my frozen toes (see background note #2 above). I probably should have pushed myself more, but I’ll take companionship over speed most any day, especially on the trails.
After about 3 miles, we hit some very slippery terrain where the river had flooded and just recently receded (recently=the night before). And by slippery, I mean that I had to jump from tree trunk to tree trunk for stability (like Tarzan, but lower to the ground and not as cool). Bright side: it was totally beautiful, so I was glad to have the opportunity to commune a bit with nature. After the mess, though, we soon hit a nice open patch, so I decided to see if I could kick up the speed—both to challenge myself and in order to get out of my wet shoes more quickly.
As I sped up, the toes felt better, and the terrain stayed workable. No falls (just one close one), no ankle rolls, no slips—just more awesome scenery. I even passed quite a few folks despite some pretty challenging hills. Then, about mile 7, I caught up to a group of very kind folks who were training for a 50K trail race next weekend. The pace was very comfortable for the home stretch, and we even booked it in at the semi-muddy finish, where I was so thrilled to overhear some guys talking about my RUN DRM shirt and to see Adrien Cooper and Kim Chapman-Page (both volunteering) cheering me in—a fine ending for a really fun race. Now I just have to figure out how to clean my shoes.
Semi-relevant background note #2: I had frost bite once when I was 12 (long. story.), so it takes my toes just shy of forever (5-ish miles in a cold race) to be not totally numb.
Race report proper: When I arrived at the race site about 45 minutes before game time, the car temp said 27. This is v.chilly to me. I suspect it just was at or just above freezing when we actually started. I really didn’t want to get out of my car, and I was actually cursing myself for signing up for a January race. I decided to be tough, though, and just get over it.
I didn’t think I knew anyone else who had signed up, but I ran into a very nice woman that I had worked with in grad school who kindly invited me to start the race with her and her running buddies. We started near the back of the pack because, honestly, that’s where the sun was when everyone was lining up. We had a steady, conservative pace, which worked out well for me because I was really having difficulty feeling stable on the trails with my frozen toes (see background note #2 above). I probably should have pushed myself more, but I’ll take companionship over speed most any day, especially on the trails.
After about 3 miles, we hit some very slippery terrain where the river had flooded and just recently receded (recently=the night before). And by slippery, I mean that I had to jump from tree trunk to tree trunk for stability (like Tarzan, but lower to the ground and not as cool). Bright side: it was totally beautiful, so I was glad to have the opportunity to commune a bit with nature. After the mess, though, we soon hit a nice open patch, so I decided to see if I could kick up the speed—both to challenge myself and in order to get out of my wet shoes more quickly.
As I sped up, the toes felt better, and the terrain stayed workable. No falls (just one close one), no ankle rolls, no slips—just more awesome scenery. I even passed quite a few folks despite some pretty challenging hills. Then, about mile 7, I caught up to a group of very kind folks who were training for a 50K trail race next weekend. The pace was very comfortable for the home stretch, and we even booked it in at the semi-muddy finish, where I was so thrilled to overhear some guys talking about my RUN DRM shirt and to see Adrien Cooper and Kim Chapman-Page (both volunteering) cheering me in—a fine ending for a really fun race. Now I just have to figure out how to clean my shoes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)