Simply Amazing

World, meet Winter Vinecki…just grab a tissue or five first.

 

Belated Race Report: Cellcom Marathon

So, whew, things have been a little busy in this corner of the blogosphere. Which is why I’m just posting this now, and which is why it’s going to be abbreviated. But, I wanted to ensure that my thoughts on this race didn’t get away from me or fade with time, and so, here they are.

I ran Green Bay precisely two weeks ago Sunday, which was almost exactly a month after I ran Boston. And after Boston, I felt great…all except for one foot that was still partially numb nearly two weeks later, and the other which, for two weeks, I had a hard time putting weight on. So, I took two weeks off of running. I went to the podiatrist. I got a cortisone shot in my foot (yee gads does that ever hurt….possibly worst pain I’ve ever felt), and orthodics for my running shoes.

Fast forward to Green Bay. I had run a few times in the week or two before — a few 4-5 milers, an eight miler, and a ten miler. I was still feeling good. Only the foot was still hurting and the other was still numb. But then, just a few days before GB, my orthodics came in, and I had a game time decision to make: wear them, and alleviate my current foot ills, or not wear them, and endure a suffer-fest on two painful feet.

I chose Plan A.

And did that plan come back to bite me right in the ass. Hard.

Things went well until mile 18. Until that point, I felt good. I was maintaining a 9 to a 9:30 minute pace. I wasn’t stopping at any water stations. I wasn’t walking. And I was on pace to finish right at least by 4:15 — my unspoken goal.

And then.

And then it felt as though someone had come up and kicked me with a pointy boot as hard as they could, smack dab in my left calf. It seized, and I nearly fell.

This carried on for the next eight miles. By mile 20, I was walking more than running, and even when running, every time I tried to goad my body into a sub 10-minute mile, there the calf went again. By mile 22 I was having to stop and stretch every 100 yards or so. And my mile 25, the spasming/cramping was almost non-stop.

Later, my podiatrist asked why I didn’t take the orthodics out and run without them. Short answer: I never thought of that. Would’ve been smart, but not until the very end did it cross my mind that that would’ve been the issue, or that removing them might’ve helped.

So, I a weird sort of deja ‘vu to two years ago, I again hobbled across the GB finish line, albeit slower this time — in a frustratingly slow 4:33

Even as I write this, it still amazes me how I’ve actually gotten slower with every marathon I’ve run. I didnt’ know that was even possible. Apparently so.

But, that’s just on paper. Because until that fateful mile 18, I felt better this marathon than I ever have before. And I learned a thing or two to take away from it too, because never before has my head been so in the game…never have I told myself to man up, and had me actually listen to me. And that — the feeling of telling myself, “step up the pace because running a 9:45 isn’t going to feel that much better than a 9:15 or 9:00 and we might as well get this puppy sewn up sooner rather than later”…and buckling down and actually doing it, even though it hurt and it wasn’t at all comfortable, and blah, blah, blah? That’s a feeling that I’m going to take with me long after…and one that I’m hoping to put to good use come October at the MCM — my #1, A-priority race this season. That’s the elusive mental toughness that I’ve been searching for, and that I somehow found along the roads of Boston and Green Bay.

And that, my friends, is what we call a really useful month of marathon running. Even if the finish times weren’t what I was looking for, those were serious deposits in the bank of A-race preparation.

Wasn’t there someone around these parts saying she didn’t have another marathon in her? Hmmm, perhaps not.

 

The same 26.2

This little article appeared today on the Runner’s World site posing the question, “Bucket List Marathon, Yeah or Nay?”

I knew, just from the title, that the author was likely one of those people — you know the type: up on the high horse, pedestal, and soapbox all-in-one. And toward the end, he didn’t (or, I guess, more accurately, did) disappoint by saying:

OK. So this guy — who I’m sure is a very nice man, by the way, with the best intentions in the world — is basically lumping marathon running in with bungee jumping, seeing the Grand Canyon, getting a tattoo, reading Moby-Dick, and (you can’t make this stuff up) owning a Miata. Just another “thing to do” before he dies. One more square in the hopscotch game of life. Tra la la.

Does anyone find this just a little bit irritating? Almost, well… insulting?

Huh? Really? So let me get this straight. You’re personally insulted that people who start behind you and finish behind you have the audacity to enter the same race as you? Isn’t that a little like Tiger Woods being offended by the fact that my dad picks up a club and shoots in the mid-80s most weekends during the summer? Actually, scratch that. Because what I found in some quick Googling of this guy is that he hasn’t exactly been winning Boston or New York of late. So I guess it would be more like the local pro at the local golf course being offended that someone would attempt a round if they didn’t have a shot at the club championship.  But again, huh? Really?

And I must admit, I expected the worst from the commenters. (Perhaps I’ve been spending a little too much time reading the Slowtwitch forums). But with the exception of a very few, they represented all that is right with the sport of running. Most said — and I couldn’t agree more — that if you’ve put your time in and trained, then no matter what the time over the finish line reads, you have reason to be proud and call yourself a marathoner.

Because no matter how fast you cover it, 26.2 is the same distance for everyone. And no matter what way you cut it, it’s a damn hard distance every single time.

 

Note to self…

Back in January, I got an email for this ride. May? I thought. Hmmmm, warm. And for a good cause to boot — saving the lives of little dogs and cats. Heartwarming, really. And all whilst getting in shape for the summer. Seemed like a no-brainier. So I immediately shot off an email to a bunch of people to gauge interest.

Fast forward to last week.

With some dread, I realized that I had gone and signed up for said ride but hadn’t actually been astride my bike since late last summer.

“No problem,” said I, trying to latch on to the positive. “I’ve been running, and working out. Just not on my bike. And it’s only 35 miles. It’ll be fine.”

Those words came back to bite me in the ass yesterday. And calves. And hamstrings. And shoulders. And…well, you get the idea.

Because embedded in the original email I received about this ride was the following: “With routes climbing between 1500 and 9000 feet, you’ll wish you had an extra set of legs!”

“Ha!” said I, upon reading that email in January. “So funny! So clever!” I laughed.

“Mother@#$%&!” said I, thinking of those same words, as I was grinding my way up what seemed like the 1,000th “rolling” hill in the first eight miles yesterday.

Note to self: marketing materials rarely lie. The truth is in there somewhere, if you’re willing to look hard enough. Always.

And additional note to self: get your ass on your bike well before attempting a ride in Dodge County organized by the same  sadist guy who does the Dairyland Dare.

Because, if I were to be honest with myself, that was the last time that I remember looking at my odometer every. single. mile. and thanking the Lord Above that that was one less mile I had to go until I was finished, just like I did yesterday.

In fact, at one point, when I seemed to be was averaging less than nine miles an hour between the wind and hills, I looked down, expecting for the odometer to tell me we were approaching the mid-point rest stop (never mind that we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by corn fields, with nary a rest area-looking area in sight) because we had been out there that long. As you might guess, the odometer told me nothing of the sort. In fact, it actually laughed at me as it said, “You haven’t even gone seven miles yet…sucker!”

(stupid odometer).

I told Chief of Stuff at that point that I was ready to be done.  He agreed. He asked if the DLD was this bad. “Worse,” I said. “It was like this for 100 miles.” He told me that he didn’t know how I survived it. This, somehow, made me feel better. Probably because I had survived it — on those same relentless roads with their relentless hills and in the relentless rain and sun (they took turns that day, alternating), alone. And, probably because, that day, I had something to prove. It was me against me.

Today, it was a completely different situation. There was nothing to prove. It wasn’t me against me. Rather, it was me with Chief of Stuff and our good (also faster and infinitely patient) friend, XT4, just out getting some miles under our collective belts on a positively fantastic spring day.

And so, I adjusted the attitude. I quit worrying about the hills; if I had to walk one, I would (but I didn’t!). I made myself look around and take in the sights (a cow off-roading through a stream!…a few new foals out to pasture!…the smallest bird I’ve ever seen!) more than my dashboard, and just appreciated the fact that for once it was not 40 degrees and sleeting during a workout. I let go of how long the ride was going to take us and simply gave myself over to enjoying it.

(Except for the time spent climbing a hill toward the last 8 miles that XT4 correctly characterized as all of the IM-Moo’s three “bitch” hills combined into one. Most of those minutes [hours?] was spent alternately swearing and hoping that the people far up in front of me — including CoS — would dismount and walk so that I could feel justified in doing the same. They did not, and I did not, which only increased the swearing. Alas.)

And it was, looking back over the day, fun. Fun to be out there. Fun to test my metle on the bike again. Fun to be doing something tough alongside friends and those you love.

And I must say, the cheesy hasbrowns, fries, and onion rings at Country Kitchen post-ride didn’t hurt either. (I’m glad we had the collective good sense to stop there and put the dessert menu away).

So, next year? A Quadrupedal rematch? Perhaps…but I’ll be on my bike well beforehand for certain.

And who knows…the DLD is only months away and just 3/4 full, too…

 

Plug for a Friend

So, in my Boston “race” report, I said I was pretty inspired by those I saw who were running for a cause. Those who tackled Boston who were thinking beyond themselves…their own time…a PR.

But before that, I was inspired by this thoughtful post by a good friend of mine, who is doing just that in his bid to tackle the Ironman for the second time this year.

So go on over there (or click the handy-dandy widget I installed on the right-hand side that says “I am Lionhearted” which will take you straight there as well), read what he has to say, and make a donation if you’re so inclined.  It’s good for the karma and all.

 

Boston: Race Report

I’m chastising myself, as I type, for not posting this earlier. Because even yesterday at this time, I was still on a high from this weekend’s experience.  Now, I’m flat-out exhausted.

And, adding to that, I’m not sure where to start. Running Boston exceeded every expectation I could have had, and then some. It truly was the experience of a lifetime, and one I hope to repeat someday — either as a charity runner, or by qualifying outright.

But even then, I’m not sure it could top this experience.  There’s something about doing things for the first time. There’s something about running those hallowed streests shoulder-to-shoulder with my sister, taking it all in as it came at us. And there was something more moving than words can describe about rounding the corner onto Boylston Street, and seeing the finish line, lights, and crowd in the distance. It will likely remain, for me, a very close second to the finish of Ironman. Very close. Although I still can’t put my finger on exactly why.

It definitely wasnt because we PR’d…far from it. Rather, it was because of a myriad of other tiny reasons that all came together to make Boston this amazing event that nearly brought me to tears running the last .2 miles…partially because I just didn’t want it to end.

Here’s a smattering:

• We are assigned to the very last corral — #27 — of the race.  It is lonely there, way at the back with only bare street behind us, and it makes me anxious. I’m afraid we will have the distinction of coming in dead last…at Boston. My sister tells me I am crazy to worry. She is right, as usual. But it takes me several miles of looking back over my shoulder to relax about this.

• I look over at my sister at the end of mile one. Her mouth is in a hard, tight line. She has been to the doctor twice in the last month for a running-related injury. The doctors did not offer much of a cure — simply told her she couldn’t do any more damage running on it. So here she is, gritting it out like a trooper. I hope she is able to finish. I worry that she will not.

• In the first mile, men leap into the woods like lemmings to relieve themselves. There’s a crowd of them, barely a foot distance between each. I make a mental note never to hike alongside the marathon route if I ever find myself back in Hopkington, MA again and marvel that anything is able to grow in those woods after the race.

• I lose my Garmin somewhere in the second mile. Someone knocks my wrist, I look down, and it’s gone. I turn and start running back the other way through a thicket of runners, all anxious to charge down the 150 feet of downhill at the start of the race. Someone yells, “You’re going the wrong way!” good-naturedly. I retrieve the Garmin — my safety net for the day; the only way for us to ensure that we’re not taking too much advantage of the downward slopes throughout the 26 miles and shredding our legs in the process. All is right with the world.

• Some guy is wearing a shirt with writing in marker on the back that says, “Single? Call me.” followed by his phone number.  This strikes me as hysterical. As does a spectator sign that reads, “Start strong. Finish strong. Smell Strong.”  In retrospect? Not quite as funny as in the moment, but still pretty good.

• The number of charities represented are seemingly countless. Dana Farber. Homes for Troops. Miles for Miracles. TNT. MS. Run for Research. I loose track. But I feel at once inspired and guilty. I’ve been running for myself this whole time, when I could’ve been doing something for the greater good. I think I’ve found my answer to “Why?” in future races. This feels great.

• There is so much to look at and take in that the miles tick by almost seemlessly. 5k already? 10k already? No, really? Not until mile 17 do I begin to look and wish for the next aid station. I’ve never had this happen in a marathon before, where that many miles in a row just tick by so easily. Unreal.

• Starting with mile 2, the balls of my feet — especially the right — are on fire with a dull ache that shoots painfully through to my toes with every step. This has been an issue I’ve struggled with all winter/spring, and it clearly isn’t going away. If this were a training run, I’d stop and stretch, which tends to help. But this is Boston (Boston!), and so I resolve to keep running. I grimace with every step, but the high of the crowds lining the streets, and the thought that I might only be here once, keeps me moving. The foot finally goes numb around mile 21 (sweet relief!). The middle toe is still numb today. Time to get that checked out.

• A college house is handing out free beer, with two of the distributors dressed in sneakers, ipods, speedos, and nothing else. Looking at them, you’d never know it was 50 degrees out. Waves of runners point and laugh at them, which I’m guessing is exactly what they wanted.

• Combined, we stop three times to address GI issues, with a line at the porta potties every time, once to allow Lindsey to re-apply her foot brace.  They were necessary — essential, even — stops, but we will curse ourselves later for the time wasted at each. Even now, I’m not sure we would have been able to do anything differently, and even now, the time each stop took is still frustrating.

• BC gets the award for the greatest spectators in the world. Wellesley is a close second. Those girls are cra-zy. Favorite moment passing Wellesley, with block-after-block of girls offering “free kisses” (with signs stating, “Kiss me, I’m from Texas,” “Kiss me, I’m Asian,” “Kiss me, I’m an English major” and on, and on) was one lone guy with a sign that said, “Kiss me…I’m a guy.”

• Heartbreak Hill isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be. I think the best-kept secret is that its the hill right before it is the one that breaks you.  My sister looks over at me as we’re slogging upwards and says, “Is this ever going to end?” We slowed to a walk briefly to regroup. I would admit this in embarassment to Chief of Stuff later, who would tell me, “It’s ok. Even Wonder Woman walked on that hill.”

• After Heartbreak, I know it’s almost all downhill. Even though we have miles to go yet, I feel like sprinting. My sister, wise counsel again, notices and says, “We have a long ways yet.”  And a couple miles later, when we can see another riotous crowd of BC students lining both sides of the street she tells me to keep it in check and keep my pace. “No speeding up up there.” But it’s so hard not to.

• In the streets of Back Bay, I see cheer on two separate men as we pass them: one is a kidney cancer survivor whose shirt reads: “Diagnosed with kidney cancer in ‘05, Chemo again in ‘07, Boston in ‘09.” The other is wearing a Fox Cities Triathlon Club jersey. I yell to him, “Go Fox Cities!” and we exchange thumbs up as I pass him.

• We round the corner onto Boylston Street. I pulled my earbuds out blocks and blocks before, unable to hear the music of my Ipod over the cheering crowd.  I look over at my sister, face pulled tight with grit and pain, and motion for her to take her headphones off: “Enjoy this!” I tell her. “Soak this in!” I look ahead toward the finish, and hot tears spring to my eyes.

• We finish in 4:50:something, although we won’t find that out until far later in the evening. This is what we do know: since 10:30 that morning, and far before, we have run through nagging injury, spurred on by the energy of this great running celebration. We have traced the same asphalt as Kara Goucher and Ryan Hall and 25,000 other runners, all paying homage to this incredible sport, to the ability — the great opportunity — to be out here at all, putting one foot in front of the other.  We have done all this together, side-by-side, and that is something we’ll remember far after our finish time has faded. As we step across the finish, my sister gasps and hiccups a brief cry — Elation. Relief. — that brings tears back to my own eyes. I hug her. “It’s over,” I tell her. “You did it. We did it.”

What a day. Pictures below.

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180 Degrees

What a difference a week can make.

When I wrote that last post I was feeling stressed, frazzled, unmotivated. I said I wasn’t sure I had another marathon in me. Well, I was wrong. About as wrong as I could’ve been (or so I hope), because on Monday — THIS COMING MONDAY– I will be toeing the line at the Boston Marathon.

Yes, BOSTON!!!  (much internal squealing)

I am hyperventilating as I type this. Still. I mean, who does things like this happen to? To quote Top Gun, I feel as though I’ve somehow soloed under a lucky star.

Yesterday, I got a call from my Aunt who lives and works in Boston. To make a long story short, she was trying to find someone to fill a charity slot vacated due to injury. This was proving uber-difficult because a) most runners who she knew are already registered for the race, and b) most other people who are runners are not in training to run a marathon on less than a week’s notice. Enter…me! I think she was half-joking when she asked, “So, want to run Boston?”

I just so happen to have been training for a marathon. This charity slot is worth a ton of money, but the cost to me would be nothing — zip, zero, zilch — save for my plane ticket out there. My aunt and uncle have offered to put me up at their house in Arlington and be my Chiefs-of-Stuff: shuttling me to the race start, cheering me on, and plying me with pasta before the race and wine and ice after.

Do I want to run Boston? Hell, yes! It just doesn’t get any better than this.  Insanely perfect, really.

Part of me feels bad about this — I didn’t qualify the old-fashioned way, after all, when I know people who missed qualifying last year by the tiniest of margins, and I’m not in tip-top marathon shape, even — but that part is very, very, very small.  Because, it’s not like I sought this out; it fell into my lap. And it’s not like I’m taking it for granted one iota; instead, I’m planning on giving constant thanks and reverence to the gods of running who are granting me this ridiculous opportunity from now until I cross that finish line…and well after.

I’m not a speedy runner. A long-standing goal of mine is just to break four-hours at some point in my life. And qualifying for Boston, while always in the back of my mind, just never seemed like much of a reality. There is a chance I might never qualify; and I would’ve never, ever have tried to go without qualifying. But this? This chance? Really, how could I say no?

So, on Monday, I’m going to stand at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, and soak it all in. I’m going to revel in the dedication and talent of so many there surrounding me (and, most likely, ahead of me), and steep in the history and hallowedness of it all.

As Wayne and Garth would say, “I’m not worthy”…but I’m going anyway.

And in the words of Chief of Stuff, “What a world.”

 

Why?

A few weeks ago, on a run with Kritta and the Vizslas, we (Krista and I, the dogs did not participate) got to talking about why we run.

Someone had asked her why she does it…if she even really enjoys it.  Initially, that answer was, “no” — for both of us. We complained about how you dread doing it. Sometimes it doesn’t feel all that great, no matter how far into a run you get. And how, especially when you’re training, you’re a slave to a schedule, which was what had happened a few weekends before when, slated for a 13-miler, we set out anyway even though it was pouring rain and 40 degrees.

That is, we started out complaining about that run. But the more we talked about it, the more our comments shifted from, “Wow did that ever suck” to “It wasn’t really that bad, and it was 13 miles we never would’ve gotten in otherwise, and we felt so darn good afterwards.”

And thus, the conversation turned to the benefits of running — of how that (and dogs) get you to embark on runs in weather you would never otherwise brave. Or take you past sights off the beaten path everywhere from Florence (Italy, not Wisconsin) to Dublin to New York when you’re forced to get miles in. Or how running just straight-up gives you that oh-so-addictive “I’ve endured and conquered; I’m tough” feeling after a session of hill sprints, intervals, or long runs.

And these things? They’re powerful things to have in your life. Good things. Things to cherish.

And then there was this past weekend, which made me forget all about The Joy of Running.

I had an 18-miler on the books.  And I don’t think that anyone ever looks forward to running 18 miles (or, I don’t know any of them if they exist), but I really didn’t want to do it.

I did, though. I set my alarm. I got myself up and dressed and out the door at the crack of dawn. And I ran, stopping only at the aid stations set up every two miles by the amazing people from Prevea who do this for free, for those training for Cellcom, every Saturday morning in Green Bay (they are angels).

But things never clicked. Although I didn’t feel outright terrible during the run, I never felt good, per se. At the very last aid station, two miles from the end point, two women about my age saw me stretching and asked if this was my first marathon. I told them it wasn’t, and then laughed (mostly to myself ), saying that surprisingly, it hasn’t gotten one shred easier after a few marathons. If anything, it’s gotten harder.

Later that night, driving to dinner with Chief of Stuff along the same route I had just run that morning, exhausted and sore, I surprised myself again by blurting that I wasn’t sure I had another marathon in me. “That’s okay,” he said.

It’s not, though. Not only am I paid up for two marathons (Green Bay in May and the Marine Corps Marathon in October), but I don’t know that I’m ready to throw in the towel, either.

In short, though, I’m struggling. With motivation. With weighing the costs of things like not being able to sleep on my left side after a long run because my hip is giving me serious grief, versus the benefits of knowing that I sucked it up already, quit whining, and got it done. Or the fact that I’ve come to realize that even if that week’s long run is only a few hours’ commitment, the after-effects of it stay with me almost for the rest of the weekend, and not in a good way.

So I’m back to that simple, one-word question that we first started with: Why?  And, another one added to it: How? How do I go forward from here? Should I stick this out, out of determination and sheer stubbornness, despite the nagging pain in my hip and foot that don’t seem to go away, and despite my lack of drive overall? Do I call it good enough, enjoy the next few spring weekends, and just turn in a solid run for the half-mary? Or do I try to run harder and smarter — getting more serious about my recovery and doing this more by the book (icing, rest,  rolling, yoga, massage etc) for the five weeks that remain — motivation be damned?And perhaps one other: When? When do you know that your body just complaining — doing a little venting, if you will, and that these aches and pains are nothing to worry about — versus telling you that it’s only one more 20-miler away from breaking down completely?

So many questions. So few answers…

 

Seen and Heard

So I was out for a run in Wisconsin’s great outdoors yesterday…well, not exactly in the “great” outdoors; more like and and around Madison. Yet, the run was not on a treadmill, and was officially outdoors, and thus, “great.” (If you, like me, have spent the past couple of handfuls of months on the dreaded ‘mill as it takes turns snowing and sleeting and raining outside, only to freeze all over the sidewalks and roads, the whole time wanting to bang your head against the treadmill display out of boredom and crying, “Why me, God? Why?” then you know where I’m coming from.)

So, yesterday, the pooches and I headed out for a quick 6-ish miler, and along the way, the following conversation took place:

Old man (in his 80’s, very few teeth) waiting at a bus stop:”They give you a run for your money,” referring to the Vizslas.

Me, pulling out ear buds: “That they do…they definitely keep me on pace.”

Old Man: “No, I meant that they give you a run for your money in the looks department — I don’t know who catches my eye more, you or those beautiful dogs.”

Umm, thanks? …I think?

 

Mrs. …a photoessay

And they lived happily ever after...

All photographs by Heidi Lee Photography. Heidi and her husband are the most amazing photographers/artists I’ve every seen or worked with.  If you’re interested in seeing more, click here.