test at convention

hi!

 

The Itch

Last year, a wise friend told me to make a hard decision about Ironman long before I got out there to watch and volunteer, otherwise it would be like “trying to balance the moral equation of being in high school and deciding if you’re ready to have sex while in the back seat with your pants off.”

Turns out, I needent have worried. The only thing I kept thinking over and over again as I watched IMWI ‘08 was, “Oh my god thank god I’m not out there.” The feeling was so strong that I almost had a physical aversion to being out there, spectating. Even the next morning, during my usual Starbucks stop pre-work, I couldn’t help but think that I was glad to have done it and glad to be able to call myself an Ironman, but I was also ridiculously happy to not be one of those walking around stiff-legged and exhausted.

This reaction is also what I expected this year. It’s not the one I got.

On the Thursday before Ironman I had lunch with Chief of Stuff, Xt4, and Brazo. One of them asked if I was in for 2010. I said I hadn’t thought about it, but that it probably wasn’t the best timing. “When is it ever good timing?” asked Xt4.

I truly hadn’t thought about it at all. I’ve been busy with a lot of other things and for the first time in the last few years, IM has not been top-of-mind. But after lunch I strolled through the Village with Xt4. I bought “Swim-Bark-Run” dog collars for Newt and Leonard. I looked out the huge windows of the Monona Terrace at the swimmers and course below. And I realized that I’d been thinking about IM for a while now…when I ran up to the Terrace the night before just to soak in the energy and excitement. When I resurrected my IM playlist on my Ipod on the way home. And just then, wandering around the Terrace, dumbstruck by the elusive magic of that race once again.

And I continued to be dumbstruck throughout the weekend. Sitting alone on the shore of Lake Monona with Newt and Leonard, watching the sun rise over the water the morning of Ironman was like being at church. It was a reverent mood, meditative. And my breath caught in my throat more than once when I thought of all of the hours that went in to getting each one of those swimmers to this point in the year…and in their lives.

Watching them head out John Nolan on their bikes, I was nervous and excited for them — for the 5, 6, 7, 8-hour journey they were embarking on out on the back roads — and hills — of Southern Wisconsin.  And walking the one-plus miles back home with Newt and Leonard that morning, I had only one thought: I want to be heading out there too. I want to be among them.

[Brief aside: I saw an incredible number of cyclists riding out to the loop that morning, within a couple inches of other cyclists on either side of them, all in their aerobars.  Not to be preachy, but PEOPLE, THIS IS DANGEROUS! Sheesh. Wait until you're not navigating through throngs of people in one little lane going against traffic to go aero. Believe me, there's plenty of time on that course to spend in your bars. Okay, rant over. Back to regular programming].

And I felt that way all day long. Standing almost on top of the third bitch at the end of most riders’ second loop. Attempting to navigate the backroads between Cross Plains and Middleton to catch up with friends doing the race, I especially felt it (I’ve discovered I’m better at biking that distance than navigating it in a car and that it’s hard work and almost as tiring to spectate). Cheering for runners coming out of Camp Randall and in the constant loop of runners moving their way up and down State Street…and then up and down again.  Hearing the boom of Mike Riley’s voice that night, all the way across on the other side of the lake over dinner with friends. It gave me goosebumps. It made me tear up. It made me think, “I want to be out there, too.”

And even the next morning, stopping for coffee before work, I was healthily jealous of the tiny swarms of those in their baby blue race shirts and their gimpy walks. I wanted to feel what they were feeling: soreness, pride, relief, elation…all rolled into one. I missed that feeling. I discovered I miss it still.

This morning I read an old blog entry I wrote one month out from Ironman. It transported me right back there, to the uncertainty and fear and the sheer accomplishment of having simply endured and come out the other side. And I sat at my computer and wiped tears that rolled steady down my cheeks and thought, how much richer my life has been because of this experience. How lucky I was to go through it. How lucky I am to have gotten to know myself like that…to have gotten to know others on the same journey…to discover how much love and support I have around me not only then, but always.  How lucky.

And so, the itch is back…that itch that started this whole process in motion in the first place.  I don’t know when I’ll be able to scratch it, so to speak, as I meant it when I said that the time isn’t right. Even though I agree with Xt4 that it’s such a big sacrifice it’s never 100% right, next year just wasn’t to be. Perhaps 2011…perhaps when I age up…we’ll see. But for now, it feels so good to simply have that itch again. To be in awe and amazement of, as my good friend Anne said after her husband finished Sunday night, “what the human body is capable of” (and, I’d add, the mind). To feel so strongly in my gut that I want to be a part of it all again.

And to Ironmen Andrew, Xt4, Brazo, J-Wim, Mike, Bridget, and Sue…it was an honor to follow you both on Sunday and along the way. You all took such different paths to that starting line in the water of Lake Monona, and to the finish line mid-way down the block of MLK, but you are all Ironmen. And I’m proud to know each of you. A most heartfelt congratulations.

 

Around Here – Summer Redux

Things have been a little quiet in these parts as of late, for a few reasons.

One, I was hurt for a while, and sulking (more on that in a bit).

Two, I’ve been writing — a lot — but just not here. You see, I have this little story (a novel that started off as my MFA thesis) that I’ve been working on for a handful of years now.  I “finished” it at the end of the winter and started sending it off to agents, and lo and behold, in April, one of them liked it enough to sign me on. After which, in May, she provided me with a laundry list of things that I need to adjust, or elminiate altogether, in the manuscript that just might have been longer than the novel itself (I kid, I kid. Sort of).   So that’s taken up a wee bit o’time, as you might imagine.

And then there was this — I haven’t had much to say. I mean, I have pretty strong opinions on a lot of things, from Miley Cyrus to the raging health care debate, but this isn’t really the forum for those sorts of thoughts.  I wasn’t racing, or even doing much training for a while there. And I don’t have anything big going on at the moment — no Ironman and nothing like it that requires the constant deconstructing and analyzing that an endeavor like that does. And honestly, for a couple of months now, everything that I’ve done can be adequately relayed in 140 characters or less — or, for the uninitiated, Twitter.  Those who follow me can attest to the riveting information put forth by yours truly like, “Easy 5 miles w/my favorite two Vizslas,” or “I almost died today in spin class.” But really, that’s all I’ve had to say.  Lame? Yes. But also, unfortunately, true.

So, with the excuses/explainations out of the way, here’s a run-down of what’s been going on around here this summer.

May, June, and Part of July

Short story? I was hurt and feeling sorry for myself.

Long story: after doing two marathons nearly back-to-back in May, I — surprise! — ended up hurt, with a nasty case of plantar fasciitis. (A friend recently told me that a common saying in his house, usually directed at the family dog, is, “Don’t do stupid things.”  ::raises hand, sheepishly. Guilty as charged::) For those who haven’t ever had this lovely issue, it basically felt like my heel bone was coming straight through the bottom of my foot…and not just when I “ran,” but pretty much constantly. I tried everything. I tried running through it (see, “don’t do stupid things” directions above). I saw a (non-sports-oriented) podiatrist who gave me orthodics, which gave me very temporary relief.  I saw a masage therapist who worked only on my foot.  I kept a tennis ball under my desk at work and rolled my foot constantly. I kept a water bottle in the freezer and iced it when I wasn’t rolling. I cried and moped a lot, thinking that I was now resigned to live a life devoid of running.

And then, two very important things happened. One, I went spinning one day and per my new usual, pathetically limped my way out of class. When the instructor, a triathlon guru, asked what was wrong and I told him, he suggested I see a sports med guy he knows outside of Madison.  Turns out this doctor is both the nicest/most knowledgeable/ most thorough sports doctor I’ve ever met, and he’s done Ironman zillions of times — one during which he taped syringes to his shorts and injected himself hourly with novocain during the run to get himself through it. Simply put: he gets not wanting to “sit around” until things heal. So, he showed me how to tape my foot for running, gave me a boot to wear at night and some exercises to strengthen my foot, and sent me on my way with blessings to run as much as my foot could stand. Two, my massage therapist suggested I read Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Super Athletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Known.  I am not exaggerating when I say this book has changed my life.  I won’t go into the nitty gritty of all it covers, but basically, the author (a recreational runner of a few miles a day) started out by asking, “Why does my foot hurt?” and like me, he had tried everything to get it to stop. What he found, among other things, was that more padding and support — running shoes and orthodics — make our feet weaker. And when our feet our weak, they are more easily injured. A great deal of the book looks at barefoot/minimalist and trail running, and how modern shoes encourage us to use a foot strike that is not biomechanically sound (striking each stride on the heel)

Interesting premise, really. Plus, it was about the last thing short of surgery I had left to try. So I read up on all of this to see if there wasn’t something to it and if it wasn’t just the latest fad. And then, finally, I tried it. I went out to run, sans tape even, in a pair of pretty minimalist Zoots and changed my stride: no more heel striking; instead, I tried a bit of a forward lean, smaller steps, and landing mid-foot toward the outside. Three miles, no pain. The next time, I upped it to four miles — no pain. Then five, six, seven, and eight. And people? Not one little twinge. Nothing. Nada, zip, zilch. Whereas before even taking the dogs for a walk literally made my stomach turn because it was so painful, suddenly, I’m running more easily than I have in quite a while — or, possibly, ever.  It’s a flipping miracle, I tell you. And Mr. McDougall, if you’re out there, I’ve been pimping your book to everyone I talk to. I can’t stop.  Really, it’s that good.

Door County Half-Ironman

Going against my normal, register-as-close-to-the-event-if-not-the-actual-day protocal, I had registered for the DC HIM way back in January.  But I had only just started running again a week or two prior, and knew I couldn’t (or, shouldn’t) complete it. So I tried to beg, plead, and whine my way into the sprint-distance. No dice. Half-iron it was.

However, up to the morning of the race, I was debating the run. I had no business running a half marathon after only getting back up to eight miles prior to, but man is it hard to drop out of a race part-way through! Plus, I reasoned, I could always just run-walk.

In the end, the swim and bike both went well — nothing much more to say about it. And, in the end, I decided to finally, “Not do stupid things.” I finished the bike, slipped on some sandals, and turned in my chip, with the rationale that I could try to get through the run of that race, but screw myself up (again) for future races; or I could just be done, and look forward to the races of the weeks to come, healthy.  And now, a few more good races under my belt since, I’ve never felt better about a decision.

I do have to give a plug to the Door Co. race organizers though. I’ve never seen such a fantastic event that wasn’t an official Ironman or 70.3. This event was fantastic. And all things aligning, I’ll be back for (the whole thing) next year.

Lake Antoine Classic

When I was a little girl, I used to run with my dad. He (bless his heart, I realize now) would let me tag along on his runs, and when I was old enough, ran with him in this annual 5-mile race in my hometown. Add to that nostalgia that “running around the lake” was a regular training route from the time I was in high school right through to my Ironman training while home in the UP, and it was so good to be able to do this race for the first time in a lot of years.

This year, there was a 15k trail run option. I was chomping at the bit to do that, instead of the measly 5-miler, but Chief of Stuff said no (“Don’t do stupid things,” were not his exact words, but something akin to that). And so we set out on the 5-miles around georgous Lake Antoine, a route that I know better than by heart. And encouraged by the splits I’d been putting up on my runs lately, I intended to keep us somewhere in the 8-9 minute mile range.

It was hard. Really hard. But my foot felt good, and so everything besides that could be handled. And it was. We finished in 43:21 — 8:40 minute miles, and good enough for a third in my age group. First time I’ve ever placed, and, honestly, first time I’ve ever really raced as opposed to just participating. It was a blast…and addicting. All the sudden, I just wanted to go fast.  (caveat: I realize this isn’t considered “fast” for most. But for me, it’s the quickest I think I’ve ever been. And it was fast enough to score my first ever age group placing — 3rd, and 11th in my division over all).

Which brings me to the…

August Fleet Feet Aquathon

Last Thursday, in a run up to the Oshkosh Triathlon yesterday, I joined xt4 and Robby B for the first August Aquathon.  I love the Aquathons. They, to me, sum up everything that is great about Madison — a beautiful location lakeside, a (really) active population, and some wonderful comraderie.

And on the heels of my speedy-for-me 5-miler the weekend before, I had goals. Mainly, to run the entire course (there are two giant hills that have brought me to my knees and made me say, “Uncle” every other time I’ve done an Aquathon) and to keep my pace under 9-minute miles.

I pushed myself on the swim but had a few leakage issues with my goggles and ended up out of the water in just over 18 mins. On the run, I left the Ipod behind and instead concentrated on form and picking off people ahead of me, one by one.

Normally, in a race, my MO is to want to walk when I get tired or bored. Sometimes I win out; sometimes my head wins out. But on Thursday, they were both — body and head — equally in tune. And it rocked. I didn’t want to slow down. I wanted to go faster. And faster yet. And at times, I had to say to myself, “Self, you have to be smart about this and not burn all your matches now.” So I’d slow back down to a 8:20 or so pace. And the whole time I kept thinking that this was inane, because I just don’t run like this. I don’t run to race, and I surely don’t run this fast. Ever. But I did. Somehow, I did. I finished in 26:38 for the 5k — my fastest 5k ever — with 8:26 min/miles. And again, I had a complete blast, actually racing.

Oshkosh Triathlon

So, with this newfound love of going fast(er), I had big goals for yesterday’s Oshkosh Tri as well — basically, this was going to be an all-out effort. No more just going through the motions, and checking each sport off the list while moving through the day.

There was just one hitch. My Garmin was in my car, which was parked forever-and-a-day away from transition. And because I have a totally neurotic dog (short but ridiculous story that I won’t go into here) I didn’t have enough time to run back and get it by the time I figured out it was missing.

I started to beat myself up and immediately threw my mental arms in the air, telling myself that I just ruined this race I had trained and focused on, that I should have put my Garmin into my tri bag the night before, I should’ve been more organized, I should be more this and I should be more that. And then, I told myself to stop. I thought, in a moment of clarity, that there were people who not long ago did races without constant digital feedback in the form of continuous split and pace breakdowns, and that not having that information did not mean that I still couldn’t put my best effort forth.

So the whole day was done via RPE.

The swim was fine, albeit for some reason I was like a drunken sailor on the leg coming back toward shore, which is unusual for me. Usually I have no problem swimming an absolutely striaght line, even with very minimal sighting.

Then, on the bike out, which was about half grass and half asphalt, I attempt to clip in, and I fall over. I fall over, attached to my bike. BEFORE I REALLY EVEN GET ON MY BIKE. I am like a giant, lycra-wearing speedbump, and it’s a damn miracle that I don’t get run over. After another attempt at clipping in, and nearly reaching the same end result, I walk my way up to the asphalt and take off from there…with a giant clump of dirt and grass sticking out of my brake hood and feeling like a complete and utter tool.

But then something amazing starts to happen that hasn’t happened to me in a race before: I start passing people. On my bike. People from the waves ahead of me. It was baffling and exhilirating all at once.

And I notice something else, too: I know about how fast I’m going. Even without the Garmin. Pedaling in my big ring with ease? That’s about 20-23 mph. Struggling in my middle ring? 14-16 mph. So I use that as a general guage, and spend the rest of the bike leg worrying about how I was going to pace my run. Ideas consisted of the following: asking someone ahead of me what their pace was and then hanging on to them for dear life for the remainder of it; asking Chief of Stuff, in transition, to run to the car, retrieve my Garmin, and run it out to me somewhere on the course; or go by feel.

In the end, that’s what happened, and it was probably a good thing. My legs settled in nicely after just half a mile, but my body did not follow suit. I guessed I was doing about 9 min-miles because my footfall matched up to Rhinnah’s “Disturbia” playing in my head, which means that if I match the beats per minute to my footfall it usually equalls about an 8:45 to 9 minute mile (Hey, I said I made peace w/being sans Garmin, but that doesn’t mean I still wasn’t obsessive about trying to figure out other ways of time keeping). But it was HOT. And insanely muggy. And although I know everyone had to deal with it and run in the same weather (I told myself this throughout as an alternate HTFU phrase), it didn’t make me any cooler.

In fact, but the time I reached the second aid station, at about mile 2 I was already spiraling toward overheating. For some reason (probably b/c I don’t sweat a whole lot) I overheat faster than anyone I know, w/all of the telltale signs: goosebumps, chills, and dizziness/seeing stars. And it was already starting…much to my dismay, at mile two.  And from then on, I would douse myself with cold water at the aid station, and get about 1/2 a mile before I started to feel off. Then it would be a run-walk until the next aid station to cool down again.  And this stunk. Partly b/c it stinks to run in 90 degree heat that feels like 100, and 100% humidity, but mostly b/c my I felt SO GOOD. I wanted to sprint. I wanted to push it. And then I would, and my body would say, “Whoah there! Just hold on one cottonpickin’ minute there, missy — we don’t have the cooling capacity for this,” right before I saw little stars in my line of vision. And then I thought of that mantra that’s been with me for a little while now this season, “Don’t do stupid things,” and I decided that it was better to be slower over the 10k than to be really quick for four miles and get hauled off to the medical tent.

So in the end, that’s what I did. I didn’t do stupid things (save for leaving my Garmin in my car). I struck a balance between racing hard and smart. And in the end, I came out with a 3:20:26. Not a PR for this course, and disappointing considering the last time I did it I had completed the Dairyland Dare the day before. But considering the things that have taken me away from training as much as I should/would’ve liked to for this race (outlined at the very, very top of this post), the crazy heat, the fact that I averaged 17.8 mph on the bike (one little victory for me), and the fact that it was all good enough to garner my second age group placing (#2) in just as many weeks (and second ever), I’ll take it.

And because it’s gone on way too long, I’ll put an end to this post and with a promise to be a more frequent visitor here in the future.

 

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.

<embed type=”application/x-shockwave-flash” src=”http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf” width=”288″ height=”192″ flashvars=”host=picasaweb.google.com&RGB=0×000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fdaskronenberg201%2Falbumid%2F5327896729266118849%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss” pluginspage=”http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer”></embed>

 

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.”