Just One Marathon

Pride, Fear and All That Jazz

I’ve made it my goal to run to work once a week, as I prepare for Around the Bay. While I can’t say that I’m overjoyed at the idea of waking up early in the dead of winter and dragging my sorry carcass to the office, it really hasn’t been as horrible as I thought.

I think that’s because, despite the cold, exhaust fumes and excessive number of hills I encounter during the 9K run, it’s kind of a novel experience. Three things really spice up this run:

Fear of death: My Dad is a regular reader of this blog, so I hesitate to write this, but my running route to work is not always, totally 100% safe. When I start my run at 7 a.m., it’s still dark, and about half of the run is on a busy road with no sidewalk and a curb buried in snow. So that means running on the road, beside distracted, under-slept drivers who are talking on their cell phones, checking their Blackberries, eating breakfast and arguing with their kids. While it’s a bit nerve-wracking sometimes, it also keeps me alert. I don’t even listen to my iPod, I’m so busy listening for the screech of car tires. 

Peer pressure: At least three co-workers have mentioned that they have seen me running to work. And it’s a well known fact that I don’t actually look that good running. In fact, I think that recreational running should be a bit like AA – you don’t know someone’s in it unless you’re an addict as well. But if one of my colleagues does catch sight of me, I’d like to look fast. Or at least not slow. That’s an incentive not to let my shoulders sag or slow my pace. And if I do need to stop, I try to manage a high-velocity spit, so I look sporty.

Potential Spontaneous Dance Numbers: There’s lots of fun people-watching on a run to work. Recently, I’ve noticed how many people waiting for buses actually sing aloud to their MP3 music. I love this new development in human behaviour. It gives me hope that the run will turn into a show-stopping musical dance number, something like this:

 

Happy Most Depressing Day of the Year, everyone! Keep belting out those tunes.

Tempo Run: I Don't Get It

A few years back, I was doing an evening run with a local group. Shortly after we started, one of my running buddies glanced at a group who had surged quickly ahead. She said contemptuously, “I thought this was supposed to be a tempo run.”

And I was thinking, “What the hell is a tempo run?”

Yes, I’d heard the term, and even read a description or two, but I couldn’t make any sense of out of it. Something about starting a little slower, running almost as fast as you can for the middle distance, then cooling down at the end. But my problem back then was that I was always running as fast as I could. I had two speeds: running and not running. For me, it wasn’t a subtle art.

Fast forward a few years. I’ve built a good base of miles, so I’ve got the endurance. I’ve learned how to structure a useful speed training workout on the track. I’ve gradually, with a few exceptions, figured out how to pick the appropriate pace for the distance I’m covering. But I still can’t figure out the tempo run. (Throw in all that stuff about lactate thresholds and oxygen use and ... well, let's just say it gets a little complicated for a gal who, just this week, used the imaginary word "scientifical" while making a presentation to a group of doctors, nurses and health care professionals.)

Last Thursday, for example, I set out for an approximately 9K run, and thought might provide a good opportunity to break the tempo code. I read up on tempo runs in one of my favourite running books, Run Less, Run Faster. It described a 2K warm up, followed by approximately 5K at a challenging but manageable pace, then a cool-down of approximately 2K. But during my first 2K, I found myself with a deadly case of Lead Legs that I just couldn’t seem to shake. Plus, it was slippery, hilly and cold. So when I got to the 2K mark, I just thought, “naaahhh”, and settled for what was a lot more like a long, steady Sunday run.

That’s only the most recent example. Somehow I just can’t seem to slow myself down at the start and then push myself hard mid-run. Truth be told, it’s making me feel like a bit of a suck.

Any advice? 

The New Me: Old and Forgetful

Two days. Two good runs. Two demoralizing experiences. Here’s how it all went down.

Tuesday: Are You Talkin' to Me?

I decided to check out an indoor track near our house. It’s a 400 metre track inside one of those ugly sports dome monstrosities. But it’s convenient – just moments away and open seven days a week. When I arrived, the teenager staffing the front desk oriented me to the dome, explained the rules and outlined the costs. “It’s $9 a visit, or $43 a month”, he explained, then he glanced at my grey hair and paused. “Unless … ummm … how old are you?”

I felt a deadly calm come over me. Was this little twerp actually offering me the seniors’ discount?! I looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’d better not be asking me what I think you’re asking me.” His gaze faltered. “Uhhh, no, um, that’s not right. No, of course not. That’ll be $9.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said,” I replied. “Now just take the money and let’s both forget this ever happened.” (Okay, I didn’t say that last part out loud. But I definitely said it with my steely-eyed stare.)

After that, well, let’s just say I was very motivated to look kick-ass fast during my intervals.

Thursday: It's Not the Years, Honey, It's the Mileage

I ran to work, a distance of just under 10K. Running to work is a bit of a logistical challenge. I’ve got to bring in clothes the day before, then pare down all my possessions to the few I’m willing to carry with me on my run (passcard, Blackberry, keys, cash). I have a locker at work, with all my toiletries, makeup and a towel, so that I can quickly shower and change once I arrive. On Thursday morning, I thought I had it all under control. I had remembered to bring an outfit to work on Wednesday – even the shoes and jewellery.

I had a pretty good run. I started out with the intention of doing a tempo run. However, on a hilly route with snowy, slippery pavement, I just didn’t have it in me to pick up my speed. Instead, I aimed for a steady pace on the hills, and I think I achieved that. I made it to work in just under an hour – pretty decent time on a route with 10+ traffic lights.

Unfortunately, on arriving, I discovered that I’d forgotten the key to my locker. That meant I had no access to the soap, towel, shampoo, hair brush and make up stored just on the other side of the thin metal locker door. Fine. People of my advanced age are resourceful, right? I grabbed a handful of paper towels from the washroom, used a process of vigorous rubbing to substitute for soap in the shower (not as fun as it sounds), then finger-combed my hair, pinched my cheeks and went out to face the day. Everything went smoothly until the end of the day when I discovered what else I’d forgotten: a coat and boots to wear on the bus ride home. A kind friend from the office took pity and offered me a ride. We had a great chat and I was dropped right to my door in plenty of time to shuttle my youngest son to hockey practice.

So what could have been a really frustrating day actually ended on a really positive note. I’m not feeling quite as philosophical about becoming a member of seniors’ discount club, though.

Everyone's a Critic

So I’m explaining to my teen-aged boys that I’ve listed the highlights (and possibly the low points) of my running year on my blog. I mention that running the half-marathon with my 16-year old was one of the high points.

“And was the fact that he beat you one of the low points?” my 13-year old asks innocently. Uh, thanks, hun. I’d forgotten about that. You’re grounded.

I only forgave him because this is the bed he slept on at the friendly-but-shabby hotel we stayed in when I ran the Wineglass Marathon in Corning, NY:

 

Five Reasons I Will Keep Running in 2011

First of all, the hiatus (or sabbatical?) is over. I’ve registered for the Around the Bay 30K race in Hamilton on March 27th. And that’s got me running again, inspired by that great, tried-and-true motivator – fear.

Second, I’m not going to summarize the worst moments of 2010. In a year characterized by over-ambitious goals, disappointing race results and long runs walked-in, there’s no point looking back. Or at least there’s no point looking back at what I didn’t achieve. What I did achieve – and experience – was a lot.

So here, in no particular order, are Reluctant Runner’s Moments of Running Pleasure from 2010:

1. Training for the half marathon with my 16-year old son. He will be the first to admit that he’s not the athletic type. On the other hand, he was awesome. Ran a negative split in every single long run we did. Never got injured. The kid is a natural – and I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother. The best part of the whole experience was spending time with him every Sunday on our long runs. I made two rules for myself during those hours we spent together: No advice. No judgment. Best decision I ever made.
2. Logging a 5K PR in the Army Run. This one felt so good because it wasn’t a fluke. I worked hard for it and felt like I earned it (even if I trained with a coach). My Garmin told me I was sub-25, but the race clock told me I was 25:39. Either was, it was a great result for me. Next year, though, I aim to break the 25 minute mark definitively. 
3. Doubling my life-time marathon count. Yes, it makes my blog name obsolete. But who was I kidding? I was never going to run just one. Also, though I didn’t finish in the time I wanted, I did shave 20 minutes off my completion time.
4. Having my friend Barb coach me in preparation for the Wineglass Marathon. She helped me really understand speed training – how to use the track to improve performance and get results. She inspired me to push myself further than I thought possible. And she made running fun again, just when I was starting to feel a little burned out. 
5. Countless blissful moments I could only experience while running. Three deer bounding out of the trees and across my path like lucky omens the night before a big race. The gift of warm mid-winter sun on my face. The perfect song just when I need it. Cool down stretches on a yoga mat at sunset while the summer breeze blows across the back of my neck.

Running Resolution #1 (I have many)

Wineglass Marathon: Let it go.

A very happy and healthy New Years to you and yours!!

Theresa

aka Reluctant Runner

In My Head, I Am Blogging

… and also running.

In real life, I haven’t written a post since recounting my tale of woe from the Wineglass Marathon in October. Since then, I’ve stopped sighing. Mostly. Unfortunately, I’ve also stopped running for the last three weeks.

I was feeling quite guilty about it, but then I gave this latest bout of laziness a name: a hiatus. That makes it sound well planned and strategic. And the guilt? Gone. I’m not slacking. I’m on a running hiatus. See how good that sounds?

Of course, there’s no hiatus from the real world. Houses must be clean, laundry folded, Christmas gifts purchased, meals prepared, university papers written and all the other demands of daily life attended to. Also, at work, they frown on the spontaneous hiatus. So one must also go into the office. Still, not running frees up a lot of time. In my case, it frees up at least 4 hours and 17 minutes over the course of 42 kilometres. Sigh.

Anyways, I can feel the pressure to run building. Any day now, I will sign up for a race (I’ve got lots of ideas). Then, I will start worrying about how on earth I’m going to complete the race. Then I will run. It’s that simple.

But for now: hiatus. I love that word.

Sigh

Bonk: The feeling of weakness caused in a drop in blood sugar during extended physical activity. Also know as 'the sags', 'the knock' and “hitting the wall'.

Executive Summary

Trained smart, ran dumb, finished in 4:17. Never want to run another 10 kilometres like the ones I ran after the 32K marker in last Sunday’s Wineglass Marathon.

The Full Story

Seriously? It’s okay.

I didn’t achieve my running goal and it was not even close. I was under-trained, made rookie mistakes, and took at least one terrible race-course photo. This week, when people asked how the marathon went, I’ve told them flat out that I was disappointed. They’ve been kind about reminding me to look on the bright side. And I do see all the positives about finishing almost 20 minutes faster than my first marathon with no injuries and an incredibly speedy recovery time.

But here’s something about me. Though I’m not competitive in the traditional sense – I don’t care much about passing other runners – I’m very competitive when it comes to achieving my potential. I hate it when I don’t do my best. And last Sunday was not my best.

It all comes down to starting out too fast. I made that decision even before I lined up with the rest of the 1,400-plus hopefuls on race day. It was quite cool – about 2 degrees C – but sunny, with the promise of a beautiful day ahead. I joined the group around Johnny, the 4-hour pacer. He rallied the people around him, explaining his approach and noting, “I am not banking time – I don’t believe in it. I’ll be running a steady pace throughout the race. My aim is that you will feel great when you cross the finish line and you will all be finishing ahead of me.” I didn’t have his confidence, though. With only one long run under my belt, I felt like I had to run the first half faster than the second half. To top things off, the group of runners around Johnny were grouped in a tight pack and I found it incredibly claustrophobic. So, after about 500 metres, I accelerated and left them behind.

During the first half of the race, I felt incredible. I was logging really fast kilometres. Too fast, I knew. But the course was gentle, the view beautiful and my adrenaline was pumping. I was supposed to be running a 5:42 pace, but I was clocking most kilometres at around 5:30 or faster. I promised myself that at the half-way point, I would slow down and steady out my pace to about 5:45.

As I passed the 21K marker, somewhere around Savona, with an average 5:33 pace, feeling like I was crossing the finish line for a half marathon. And that would have been awesome if, y’know, I actually was running a half. Unfortunately, I still had just over 21 kilometres to go. And my body was kinda done. I ran kilometre 22 at a 6:08 pace. Then kilometre 23 at a 5:53 pace. I managed 5:37 for kilometre 24, but by then, the writing was on the giant 26-mile high wall. I never logged another kilometre at my goal pace after that. At around kilometre 26, the four hour pace group caught up to me. By kilometre 27, they had passed me.

When The Runner I Married and my youngest son met me at the 32 kilometre marker, the first words I said were, “I blew it”. They thought I was nuts because they’d just seen the four-hour group go by. But they didn’t know what I knew – that my legs were done. They did their best to mentally patch me back together and send me on my way.

Then followed the longest 10 kilometres of my life. Since I was now running at a much slower pace, I was being passed all the other, more sensible runners. My only running buddies were the weak and the wounded – and I fit right in. I remember many kind people yelling words of encouragement from the sidelines. At one point, I passed a family gathered on a residential street corner. Among them was an old man, dressed formally and sitting in a lawn chair. He looked straight in the face, nodded his head, gave me a look that said, “just get on with it”, and raised his thumb. I straightened my shoulders and soldiered on.

At kilometre 38, my Garmin quit, likely in disgust. At kilometre 40, the 4:15 pace group passed me looking strong and disciplined. I could not keep up, and actually watched them cross the finish line two minutes ahead of me.  

During the last two kilometres, I wanted nothing more than to walk. But I knew that although walking would feel good at that moment, logging one last Runner’s Walk of Shame would feel horrible for weeks to come. With about 200 metres to go, someone yelled, “not much further!” and I wanted to cry, because the distance seemed endless. But it did, finally, end. 

Then I was wrapped in a tinfoil blanket and wearing a beautiful finisher’s medal that felt, at that moment, undeserved. While I was stuffing my face with pizza, bagels and what tasted like the world’s most delicious banana, I told The Runner I Married: “I am never, ever doing that again.” Though I really meant it at that moment, he just rolled his eyes.

And he was right. Because within two hours, I was figuring out how to make my next marathon a better experience.

Learning is Not a Spectator Sport

Twelve hours from now, I’ll know what kind of marathon I’m going to run. It’ll be approximately 90 minutes after the start of the race, and by then I’ll be learning if I was right or wrong to try to run this race at the pace I’ve chosen. 

Right now, on the evening before, I’m not sure. I know I’m faster – over short distances. But I’m not certain how my body will respond after 3 or 4 hours of pounding.

Though I’m nervous, I have this inexplicable feeling of confidence about tomorrow’s run. I think it’s going to be great. But I’m afraid that I’m over-confident – or under-experienced. Still, there’s only way to find out. Give it a try.

Ready

“…the taper may seem to bring on injuries. You may develop all kinds of minor aches and pains, or feel sluggish and irritable as the race approaches. You train less but worry more.”

-- The Competitive Runner’s Handbook, Bob Glover and Shelly-lynn Florence Glover

 

Phantom aches? Irritability? Worry? Check, check and check.

 

This week, I’ve had a galloping case of the “taper crazies”. I’ve got a chest cold, my hip feels weird, and I’m beset by doubts.

 

The only time I feel good is when I’m running. In fact, when I’m running, I feel fantastic. And fast? You have no idea. During my speed training on Friday night, I logged my speediest 800s to date – and it didn’t even feel hard. This morning, I ran just over 13K at a 5:30/K pace, again without too much effort.

 

Unfortunately, since I’m tapering – significantly reducing my mileage to give my body time to rest and heal before the big day – I’m not running much. And because I’ve been extremely busy with work and kids’ fall activities, I haven’t been cross-training either. That makes me nervous. So does the fact that, due to a bout of low blood iron, I only ran one 20-miler during this training schedule. It doesn’t feel like I’ve logged enough long-run Ks.

 

However, there’s not a lot I can do about it now. Whatever work I’ve done in the past 20 weeks or so will have to be enough. And this morning, as I finished my last long run, I heard a calm, confident voice inside myself saying, “I’m ready”. (At least, I hope it was my inside voice. During this challenging training period, I’ve developed the “endearingly eccentric” habit of talking out loud to myself at critical moments.)

 

Inside or outside, I was glad to hear that voice. So far, it has never been wrong.

One Race, Three Finish Times

 "Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies …”

High Flight, John Gillespie Magee Jr.

 

Every time I stand at the start line of a race, I feel the same way: grateful. Surrounded by other runners, my heart pounding with excitement and my body preparing itself for the test ahead, I feel fortunate to be healthy and able to pursue this sport.

 

And this day gave me many reasons to feel lucky. The Army Run is a truly inspiring event. It’s held in support of the Canadian Forces and has all kinds of cool touches that remind runners of those in military service – from a cannon-blast race start to dog-tag medals for finishers. Most moving of all, both the 5K and half marathon events include an early “injured soldiers” start. During the 5K outing, I passed soldiers on prosthetics, in wheelchairs and running with many injuries and disabilities. Surrounded by family and supporters who protected them from the hoard of over 6,500 runners streaming by, these athletes embodied determination in the face of adversity. Other runners (including myself) burst into spontaneous applause whenever we passed one of them.

 

I’ve run plenty of big races and had to negotiate large crowds before, but never in a race where every second mattered so much to me. I was determined to break 26 minutes, but in the first few moments, when I couldn’t manoeuvre past the 30 minute pace bunny, I was wondering if it would be possible. I struggled to keep my head as I dodged and weaved and tried to achieve what felt like the right pace. It was tricky. At one point, running up a hill, my Garmin told me I was running at a 3:10 pace – almost two minutes faster than my goal pace of 5 minutes per kilometre. Another moment, my pace was 6 minutes. Eventually, though, I found my niche and settled in. Before I knew it, my Garmin beeped, indicating that I’d finished my first kilometre. Pace: 4:27. Wow!

 

I was really pleased, until I noticed that I hadn’t passed the 1K marker on the course. As I passed the sign, I looked at my Garmin and it read 1.22 kilometres. Hmm.

 

Kilometre two on my Garmin was at a 5:10 pace – not bad. But again, I had to run another minute or so until I reached the 2K marker on the course. The story was the same for the rest of the race. At the end, the Garmin read 5.22 kilometres and indicated that I’d run it at an average 4:55 pace. At 5K on my Garmin, the time read 24 minutes and 39 seconds. However,  I crossed the finish line a minute later. To summarize, I had 3 finish times:

 

Garmin time (5K): 24:39

Chip time: 25: 39

Gun time: 26:56

 

Gun time is the runner’s completion time from the time the gun goes off until the time the runner finishes. Most runners discount their gun time because when there’s a big crowd at the start line, it can take more than a minute just to get to the starting line. Chip time measures your run time from the moment you cross the start line (a computer chip records this time), to the time your chip-bearing shoe crosses the finish line.

 

So, it was either a good race – an improvement of over 25 seconds over my personal best – or a great race – a definitive smashing of the 25 minute time limit. Why does it even matter? Well, keep in mind that I’m hoping to run a 4-hour marathon, the Boston-qualifying time for my age and gender. If you plug a 24:39 5K into an on-line race time predictor, it forecasts a marathon finish time of 3 hours and 56 minutes. If you plug in 25:39 for a 5K, it predicts a marathon finish time of 4:05.

 

The thing is, neither of those numbers means anything. All that matters is the time in which I actually manage to complete the marathon in two weeks’ time. Today’s results just add a little drama to the next two weeks.

 

After the race, The Runner I Married and I went to the Canadian Aviation and Space Museum for a ceremony commemorating the 70^th anniversary of the Battle of Britain. TRIM was interested because he’s a history buff and a huge fan of vintage aircraft. Part of the ceremony included a fly-by of WW2 airplanes, including the Spitfire, Hurricane and Lancaster Bomber. Part of the ceremony included a reading of the poem quoted above. John Magee, a fighter pilot who flew the Spitfire, was 19 years old when he wrote it. He died in a mid-air collision later that same year.