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.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
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.
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