On the DNS

It happens. In early spring, you have every intention of making this the year you'll adequately prepare for a fall race and execute the race plan. The Universe throws you a few curve balls, but it's okay, you'll get back on track. Look, there's even a Groupon for a random race that sort of fits your training schedule for the peak race.

Then you catch a dreaded early fall cold and are knocked off your feet for days. And race day turns out to be chilly, and when you look at the course map, it's essentially laps around the parking lots of a defunct football stadium.

That's how my first DNS happened this morning. Going into the summer, I soon realized that my running base was nonexistent, which made a half marathon training plan with any sort of speedwork silly. New goal: build up mileage without injuring myself.

I was lured by a Groupon for a 15K a few weeks after the Army Ten Miler but before the Richmond half. I'd never run a 15K before. Why not?

When I went to bed last night, I still had every intention of racing this morning, even though I was on Day 10 of a lingering cold and had celebrated a friend's birthday with an 8-mile hike and multi-course dinner the night before.

Then my alarm went off at the reasonable time of 7am. Instead of bounding out like I usually do on race day, I rolled over and hit snooze. When the soothing tones of NPR woke me up again, I made the decision that my body was not well enough to race.

I slept for another 1.5 hours, pretty much proof that I was too exhausted to race. I did make it out for an 11-mile run later in the day. Suffice to say, my cold and tired legs showed.

I don't feel great about not making it to the start line this morning, but there's no doubt it was the right call. Plus, I got this view yesterday:

On Realism, or The Urban Bourbon Half Marathon Kicked My Glutes

I kept my training cycle and schedule for this fall racing season pretty low key, mostly because I knew going in that it would be a rebuilding year. Rebuilding periods are mentally tough. Basically, "rebuilding" is a reframing of "not as fast as I know I can be" and learning to accept that. Rebuilding is realism. In fact, being overly optimistic about a rebuilding period is more likely than not a recipe for falling short of expectations and disappointment.

Yet it's practically human nature to be optimistic. Optimism about our own capabilities is the stuff that compels us to tie up the laces to head out for a run hours before the sun even rises.

After taking the bulk of the 12-month period after November 2012 off of serious training for middle-distance races, 2014 started off with some skiing, yoga, and overtraining for the Broad Street Run in May. Whoops. By then, Michelle had persuaded me to run another half marathon, so I needed to get my act together and train. I took June easy and ran without a watch for the entire month before ramping back up to train for this past weekend's race in Louisville, KY, the Urban Bourbon. I finished race, but the course kicked my butt. 

The swag kicked butt, too.

But, before the course kicked my butt, I also had a feeling of dread. Unlike the Richmond Half in 2012, I didn't run through the prior winter this year, and despite having run the Broad Street Run, my base was mediocre. I didn't prioritize strength training because I wanted to do more standup paddle boarding, and I was, well, lazy. Coming off the Army 10-Miler in 2012, I distinctly remember thinking, "I can run another 3 miles." This year, I finished a minute behind my 2012 time, which is inconsequential in a race as large as the ATM, but the thought as I crossed the finish line was definitely not "I can run another 3 miles."

Then, ten minutes after the race, I had foot and low calf cramps. I'd never had any sort of running-related muscle cramps before, so these caught me off guard. And if I was getting cramps after a 10-mile race, what would happen to me during a half marathon??

Is it self doubt leading to a self-fulfilling prophecy or realism when you jog to the start on race day and just hope that you can stay loose the next 13.1 miles and that they won't hurt too much? 

And the first 5 miles did feel good. But then the hills came. I hate hills, and for that reason, I rarely hit more than 2 hills during a long training run. During the race, there was a spectator on one hill that I could have hugged. He was coaching people up the hill, telling us things we already knew but were buried in an oxygen-deprived corner of our brains: use your arms, let your upper body carry you up the hill, you can do it. Nevertheless, these hills took a lot of fight out of me, and by mile 9, even though there were no more hills, I had lost a lot of will. Sadly for me, the Urban Bourbon was not a 10-mile race. Even sadder, I didn't really have a mantra planned or miles dedicated to anyone to carry me through the last three miles. Come to think of it, though, it's probably good that no miles were dedicated to anyone, lest the quality of mile 12 reflect the quality of our relationship.

Here's how my body felt: it was loose the first 5 miles. Then, both mentally and physically, I began to break down from miles 6 through 9. I took 3 walk breaks in mile 10 because my body tightened up. Hamstrings, calves, shoulders. My glutes would have tightened up if they still existed. I got my act together in mile 11 to run, but I took another 3 walk breaks in mile 12. Mile 13 was frustrating. I wanted to run the last 1.1 mile but made it only .6 of a mile before I needed to walk again. Strong finishes have always been my strength, but this was definitely not strong. 

Even though my race plan was to survive the first 10 miles and then see what happened, I really wanted the race to go better than that. So, I was pretty crushed at hardly surviving the first 10 miles and how bad the last 4 miles felt in comparison to the first 5 miles. The foot cramps that first showed up at the Army 10-Miler reappeared within 15 to 20 minutes after finishing, and I don't remember an endorphin (or any other) high. I'm pretty sure I told Michelle that I was never running another half marathon. Or hills. And if she wasn't there waiting for me at the finish, I would have skulked back to the hotel room and curled up into a ball.

Now I'm two days post race. What do you do when the thing about yourself that you could always rely upon becomes unreliable? You try to figure out what went wrong and whether you can get it back. Onward.

On Being Game Fit and Other Musings

After a whirlwind 24-hours in Philly, I came back with a ten-mile jaunt down Broad Street and a couple of beers and some mussels under my belt.

Last week, I ran exactly 1.25 miles after realizing that I was probably overtrained (thank you, Jonathan, for that insight). And after that short run, my calves were unexpectedly sore. I'm the first person to tell friends to trust their training going into a race. But this time, in building fitness and distance, I had essentially mis-trained, and I had no idea whether a one-week layoff would be enough. I did not trust my training.

So, much to my surprise and delight on Sunday, I turned in a game fit time under the 1:40 mark! And until the last mile – and who really feels good in that mile – the run felt pretty good. I credit much of my result on the net downhill course and deciding very early in the race to focus on staying on a painted line on a (mostly) straight roadway/course.

I'm pleased with my time given my current condition and the level of training I (over)did. Other positives: racers received free rides on the subway, the entry fee was a mere $43, there were water stations at practically every mile for those who like to have stomachs that slosh, and the mobile app was pretty effective.

But, the test of whether a race has grown too big for its britches is if the average-paced runner feels she has had a good experience. If logistics and planning go sideways – say, not so hypothetically, runners need to stop running before the finish timing mat because the crowd of runners who finished seconds earlier are still on the mats due to overall crowding in the chute – the middle to back of the pack is where that impact is felt.

So, as a middle of the pack runner, I'm not rushing to enter next year's lottery. The race has reached its resources' carrying capacity, and unless Broad Street has an emotional connection for the runner, there are other smaller races out there.

Like in the fall. When I'm better trained. 

On (Over)Training

The Broad Street Run is this Sunday! And I may be overtrained! But, it's an improvement from lacking confidence, which is how I felt before the brain trust that I consulted reframed my ailments determined that I was overtrained.

And coincidentally, the local forecast spewed out this:

Just so we're clear, I'm potentially "overtrained" for someone who's doing essentially the couch to 10-miler. I don't really run in the winter, nor do I train for spring races longer than 10K.

I realized two Sundays ago that I managed to write in my calendar some random training plan that had me logging 2 to 4 extra miles per week for the last month than I intended. And not surprisingly (in retrospect), for the last month, I have been complaining to a lucky group of people about how recovery is taking longer than it did 10 years ago. My legs started feeling tired at mile 4 of my runs and crushed by mile 6. Walking up the three flights to my office left me winded. Holding a Warrior 2 in yoga left my quads quivering.

It was demoralizing, and I was convinced that the last trip around the sun did a number on me. I tried eating more protein and sleeping more. And then I realized that I wasn't even following a training plan.

I don't know my regular resting heart rate and whether it's become elevated, so really, I don't have any measure of whether I'm overtrained. And there's a certain level of weirdness to referring to myself as "overtrained" when I'm nowhere near peak-for-me speed. But it's a reasonable explanation for my ailments.

It's all relative.

Now there's a rain event of ark-building proportions this week = forced rest for someone who does not have access to a treadmill, although I do plan to get out later this week to shake out the legs.

And yeah, for me, having things reframed as "overtrained" has actually helped my lack of confidence. Let's face it: legs regularly dying at 10K when training for 10M is not inspiring. But with my brain in a different frame of mine, I'm looking forward to heading up I-95 to Broad Street.

Eleven Ten and Eleven Eleven: 2013 Veterans Day 10K recap

The last few weeks, I decided to try an unorthodox experiment: what would happen if my moderately conditioned self decided to run a few 8 and 10Ks in successive weeks?

Here's what I learned:

• When I wake up not excited to race, the race is hard.
• Right now, I'm physically conditioned to run not much more than 5 miles.
• Hains Point has not gotten more exciting to run since last fall.
• "Local" DC races are way more competitive than "national" charity races.

Despite waking up Sunday morning from a great night of sleep, I really, really did not feel like jumping out of bed and running a 10K. I had registered for the Veterans Day because I wanted to compare my speed from the MCM 10K two weeks earlier and see what, if any, impact a flat course and fewer people would have. I'll cut to the chase – when you haven't been training, crowds and a slightly flatter course don't really have an impact.

Here's what happened: I took too long to find a parking spot, I ran to the course, immediately went on the port-o-potty line, and the race started. I jumped somewhere into a group of racers and crossed the start line 2 minutes after the start.

After about 4 and a half miles, I was ready for the race to be done. It wasn't as windy or overcast as I had expected, and I was overheating under my run jacket. Mentally, I also was not into it, which was sort of distressing because the only way back to my car was, well, down the race course. Plus, it was a Veterans Day race, which made me feel even more lame about being mentally checked out. Actually, any time you feel like the situation you're currently in is crummy, just think about what a vet went through during a deployment to a war zone, and you'll immediately reframe your immediate situation.

So yeah. I cursed my failure to eat a fritatta before the race like I did for my two prior races because obviously that was the difference in mentality between those and this race. And then I trudged on to finish the next couple of miles.

On track for a negative split...until I wasn't.
Guess where I checked out.

It wasn't pretty. I had no kick. The couple I'd been running with since mile 5.5 mile sprinted the last 20 yards, and right before crossing the timing mat, the guy reached back for his partner's hand so they could cross the line together. It was kinda cute. Next year, I need a cute guy to chase down the race course so I don't mentally check out...

Veterans Day 2013 on the Mall.

Returning to the Scene of Last Year's DNF

Today's race took me to the site of last year's DNF.

I ran the National Race to End Women's Cancer 8K this morning after spending an embarrassing amount of time deciding whether to wear shorts or tights. My tights threshold is usually 45˚F, but when I woke up this morning, it was 50˚F, overcast, and blustery, all of which tipped the needle towards tights. 

Apparently it was "overcast" because of a partial solar eclipse.

After realizing that celestial mechanics – and not the weather – were at work, I switched into shorts and jogged a mile to the start line.

Urrgh. My ankles were tight and cranky. Both sides. And it was noticeable. This would be an interesting ~5 miles.

Also, an interesting swag bag.

I went into this race with a few thoughts. 

First, I wondered what charity race organizers thought of people like me: middle of the packers who had at most empathy for the charitable cause but didn't fundraise. Then I lined up at the start next to a woman who was clearly (1) fast and (2) a bandit. I figured that even though I bought my race bib at over a 50% discount through Living Social (and basically made up that value in the contents of my race bag full of swag I'll actually use) and didn't fundraise, I was doing the charity more favors than a bandit. Plus, I'm blogging about it. So there.

Second, I really wanted to finish in under 47 minutes. I'm the queen of arbitrary race time goals, especially when I've been having as haphazard a season as this fall. But 47 minutes made some sense. When I plugged last week's 10K time into the McMillan Calculator, it spat out 47:29 for an 8K. And when I took my splits from last week's race, they added up to ~47:39 at mile 5. Adding in that the crowds from last week probably slowed me down, sub 47 for an 8K seemed possible. 

So here's what happened: I lined up way too close to the front for someone hoping for a 9:30 per mile base pace. My first half mile was close to an 8:30 per mile pace, and I spent the next 2 miles panicking and telling myself to slow down. I think I ultimately got it closer to a 9:20 pace for the second mile, and finally, for miles 3 and 4, I was just over 9:30s. The last not-quite-a-mile-unless-you're-zig-zagging-along-Pennsylvania-Avenue was just above a 9 minute mile pace. 

Cobble all that together, and it was a somewhat discombuluated, positive split run that came in at under 47 minutes. Whew.

My biggest takeaway is that while I loved not having to dodge slower runners right off the start, I spent a lot of mental energy telling myself to run my own race and not to care about the bodies moving past me. Sure, I wish I could have started in a more appropriate place, but who knows. Maybe the speed demons around me pushed me to my time goal today, and sometimes that works, too. 

MCM 10K: Then and Now

My first 10K was the 2006 Marine Corps Marathon 10K. The race itself was a mess. The marathon and the 10K both shared the same starting line, except they headed in opposite directions. So we were all lined up behind the marathoners (because where else were we supposed to line up?) and then after the marathon start, we were told to turn around and walk backwards until all 10K racers were behind the start line/balloon arch.

This basically left the slower runners at the front of the race and presumably faster runners toward the rear. Brilliant.

I spent the first half mile running around people already walking the race. The middle of the race I don't really remember. But I do remember the last turn before heading up the hill to the Iwo Jima Memorial: somehow, all the runners wound up in the right lane of the divided highway, and Marines were directing us to cross the grass-covered median to make the left turn onto Marshall Drive. Uhm, really?

Nevertheless, I hit my goal time and accomplished a new race distance. Wheee!

Since then, I've called the MCM 10K the ignored stepchild of the MCM, so it's kind of a surprise to me that I registered for this year's 10K. I can't even remember what thought process led me to the start line this year, although I suspect that I was enticed by the proximity of the start line to my home and also the course going over the dreaded 14th Street Bridge at mile 2.

Anyway, the 2013 race: I'd spent the 3 days prior to race day in New Hampshire, eating, drinking, and sleeping erratically. And my training this season was maintenance at best. So I didn't have high expectations for my run on Sunday. It was supposed to be a training (hah) run, and I planned to run the 1.5 miles to the start. I mean, I even had a frittata for breakfast. Who eats a frittata on race day??Basically, it was a huge question mark in my head whether I'd finish this race in under an hour.

So, I ran down to the Mall, did the port-o-potty thing, and then swung my legs over the metal barrier to get into the corral. Almost 4 minutes after the pistol went off, 7000 of my close friends and I crossed the start line.

The most noticeable thing for the next 5 miles is how blank and yet present my mind was. I noticed the turns around the Mall, the rhythm of the drum corps as I made my way onto the bridge, and the bridge itself (which, while boring, is pretty manageable in the first half of a race in comparison to the last half, which is where it hits in the Army Ten Miler and practically ever other race in VA/DC). I remember the turn off the bridge, the small loop around Crystal City, and then running around the Pentagon.

Things were feeling good.

And then, on cue, at mile 5, my legs turned lead.

Sweet baby deity, I realized, this was going to hurt. And there was still that annoying hill up to the finish.

I started picking out people to pass, like the dude wearing the inflatable cowboy riding a horse costume.

Turning up the hill, I was reminded of the first time I ran up it, when a spectator yelled at a runner near me, "Use your arms!" and I thought, "Hey! I have arms, too!"

And then there it was, the finish. And the clock. I squeaked in with my slowest 10K time, just under an hour, which was perfectly fine to me.

Race Hardware!

Two weekends ago, I made my way down to the Mississippi Delta, hung out with the Transporter (you may remember her from Richmond and the 2010 cross country drive) and her family, and we both wound up on the podium for our age group in the 300 Oaks 5K in Greenwood, Mississippi. It was not the fastest 5K for either of us, but I'll take the hardware, even though I spent a few minutes wondering whether it was akin to a participation award.

This article (snippet posted below) in the Wall Street Journal came on my radar. The condensed version is that the author, based on approximately 4 interviews with men in their 50s, laments that there appears to be an age cohort (roughly Millennials and younger Gen X) of U.S. race participants who are slower than those guys were 20 years ago and who don't care about their race times:

From "The Slowest Generation" by Kevin Helliker,
published in the Wall Street Journal, D10, September 19, 2013.

Whatever. I care about my race times. I just don't have all the time in the world to train.

Without going into a massive, divisive discussion on why the whole point of registering for a race is to have it be timed and competitive, I'll just note that it's because of this mentality that I'm excited about my finish at 300 Oaks but kind of "meh" about my time.

The Transporter and I had intended to register for the 10K. But, as race day approached, I began to panic: after spending most of the spring scratching races and the summer resting my unidentified leg injury, I was in subpar aerobic condition.

Then I remembered that there was a 5K option for race day! By the time my flight landed in Mississippi, the Transporter had also decided to run the 5K. Yay! 

On race day, the Transporter and I picked up our bibs and jogged to the start. Once we got there, I told her that I looked at last year's times and thought that if we finished in under 30 minutes, we'd place in our age group. She seemed skeptical, for good reason. I don't think I'm crushing anyone's ego by writing this: a 30 minute road 5K isn't particularly competitive for an able-bodied and physically healthy person. My concern, even more sadly, was that it was kind of questionable whether I could even run a flat 5K road race in under 30 minutes right now.

Then, after the 10K runners and 5K walkers began their races – on a shared course – the Transporter looked around at the runners who remained. 

"Steph!" the Transporter said. "We can do this!"

I smiled at her, but my inside voice was saying, "Man, I just really hope I finish in under 30 minutes."

Within the first 50 feet of the start, the Transporter's cheering squad was screaming at the top of their lungs. We'd see them 2 more times before the finish. They were awesome! Then the Transporter and I settled into a conversational pace. I'd always wondered about people women who chatted while running races – I mean, it's a race! Why are you talking?? – and now I was one of them. Yikes.

Although over 200 5K walkers started before the 5K runners, it wasn't as much of a cluster as I thought it would be. Then again, I'm used to races with 20,000 people at the start and running on sidewalks during tourist season. 

As for my run...You know how when you drink too many fluids and they haven't had time to absorb into your system, they start sloshing around in your stomach instead? And you can hear the sloshing? Yeah. That was me for the bulk of this race. I was pretty excited to stop running so that the sloshing could stop. After just over 29 minutes, I could!

We made our way to the post-race festivities and checked our times. The Transporter squealed when she saw that she had placed first in our age group. Then I squealed when I saw that I had placed second, as though I was surprised that no one squeaked in between us at the finish line. 

Initially, I was a little worried that it was essentially a participation award, a la that Wall Street Journal article, you know, like what if there were only 2 people in our age group? Then again, everyone needs an ego boost every now and then, especially after a DNF and 2 DNS's since December! 

Back on the Asphalt!

A crazy thing happened earlier this month: My Garmin found its way back onto my wrist, and I went for a run. 

Actually, between August 7th and today, I went on 4 runs. Of course, all the things that happen when you haven't used your Garmin in 3 months happened: it took forever to find satellites, I couldn't remember my Garmin Connect password and had to reset it, and my cardio is in the cellar. Big time. I won't bore you with the details other than to say that my pace is really, really disappointing after how fast I was in November. Or even March.

Some people yo-yo diet. I yo-yo run. 

First, I have an awesome season training and meet/exceed my expectations for a peak race. After that race, I realize the amount of time spent training and the need to recalibrate and to refocus my time and energy elsewhere for a bit. Then I come back on to the asphalt 6 months later, and the first 100 miles (I'm just guessing here) are murder. And then that fall racing season is pretty mediocre, and I vow never to do that again, so I train through the following winter, spring, and summer and have an awesome fall. 

Rinse. Repeat.

This year, I ran a solid half marathon in Richmond in November, planned only January and February off, and wanted to focus on shorter distances for the fall. I came back in March with surprisingly decent cardio, thanks to spending most of February in Tahoe. But something was wrong with muscles behind my knee. So I rested. Then I found myself needing to be in the library as much as possible to study for a crazy licensing exam. Tack on my regular job and teaching yoga, and running took a back burner. 

So here I am. Transferring my Army 10-Miler bib. 

Random aside - the message board is really clunky. Seriously, ATM organizers, you can do better than that. I'm pretty sure that half of your users are first-time message board people, and that thing is one of the least user-friendly things I have ever seen.

So anyway, I'm back on the asphalt, and I've got a couple of 10Ks slated for the fall. I'm hoping this ego-busting breaking-in period of slow runs is short, and I'm pretty excited to see where my legs take me this season! 

Fits, Starts, and (S)Puttering Along

First, the important stuff: I'm teaching a yoga for runners workshop on May 5th at Quiet Mind Yoga in Washington, DC. If you're in the area and have always wondered what yoga can do for your running, please stop by. Scroll down on the studio's "Workshops" page to register. Hope to see you there!

Now, on to my running.

Something is wrong with my right leg. It sucks.

Two weeks ago, it was deceptively warm after a couple of frigid weeks in D.C., so it seemed like a good idea to run home from work. Unbeknownst to me until I stepped out of my office, it was in the low 50˚s and winds were steady at 20mph, gusting to 30mph. Ugh. And brrr. Twenty steps in, my right ankle felt weird. I have freakishly flexible but strong ankles – the only time I've ever sprained one was when I tripped and tried to stay upright while running down stairs a decade ago. I actually tore a ligament there because you know, when it comes to me and soft tissue injuries, it's either go big or go home. Anyway, I figured the ankle would feel better over time. And it did.

But then the rest of the kinetic chain started falling apart. I circled the Washington Monument, a mere half mile into my run, and just hoped to get home because the headwind was pretty wicked. Then there was a twinge in my calf. Or my hamstring. I kept running. "It'll ease away if I ever warm up in this wind."

I went for about 2 more miles before calling it quits. By then, all the wrong muscles started compensating for whatever was wrong in my right leg, and my right knee was really, really unhappy. I limped home. Did I mention it was windy? 

Sigh.

Since then, I've been resting, mostly because every run I've attempted since then has resulted in a walk home. Even today. Not exactly inspring.

I've been trying to figure out if I pulled something or if something is weak. It's likely a combination of both, so I've headed back to Pilates. I've pulled out the foam roller. And the Yamuna Ball. I even picked up some calf compression sleeves.

It's slow going. The right leg and knee still feel pretty weird after about 2 miles, and now I'm seriously contemplating a DNS for the Pike's Peek 10K next week, which is a subpar way of starting off this year's races.

On the plus side, I'll be able to head to a yin yoga training that I had been trying to figure out how I'd be able to fit in to my schedule. Silver linings, right?

A Case of the Blahs

At the risk of sounding like the opening pages of either a self-help book or a memoir worthy of Oprah's attention, I've got the mid-March lack of running motivation blahs. The whole point of registering for the April 21 Pike's Peek 10K was to nip the blahs before they became full-blown, but the weather and daylight savings time have conspired against me. And so it's been 11 days between training runs. 

That's right. ELEVEN.

You wouldn't know it from this training cycle the last 4 months, but I'm a morning runner. And a morning yogini. And a morning skier, for that matter. Actually, the best way to get me out of bed in the morning is to tell me that conditions on the mountain are going to be stellar. 

When I was in Tahoe last month, my body was dialed into its circadian clock. I stayed awake for about four hours after the sun set and woke up as the ski lightened just before 7, all without an alarm. 

Then I came back east, where I'm at my desk at 8:30am and am still there at 6pm (and which is a whole other story).

And then daylight savings time started less than a week later. Remember back in the old days when daylight savings time started in April?? I do. I miss it. A lot.

I know a lot of people love that it's now light outside in the evenings when leaving work. But my body is pretty reluctant to wake up when it's dark after it's been growing accustomed to the sun rising before 7am. So for the month that it takes to regain what was lost with daylight savings time, I struggle to roll out of bed. Every. Day.

This means that my morning runs are non-existent. And the first 10K of the season is looming. The best I could garner this week was a cameo appearance at the Pilates studio during lunch on Wednesday, one active yoga class, and 4 miles in the Brooks.

*Big, huge, excuse-laden sigh (because, you know, there's nothing keeping me from running in the evenings).*

I need a running reboot. 

This week's workouts (to keep me honest):

Saturday - rest

Sunday - rest (see what I mean about the blahs? I can't even motivate on weekends!)

Monday - 90 minutes yoga

Tuesday - rest

Wednesday - 60 minutes Pilates

Thursday - 75 minutes yin yoga

Friday - 4 mile run

What's Next?

Contrary to the Ski Tech's prediction, it took 6 days – not 10 hours – for post-"Great Squaw Valley Fiasco Misadventure of 2013" (aka, the month during which I wore the same red Lululemon Athletica scuba hoodie whenever I wasn't skiing) depression to set in. That would be Sunday night, when I realized that last week's 3-day work week, thanks in part to the 'Noquester faux snow storm, was a fluke. 

If you were in Tahoe in February and didn't see me 
wearing this when not skiing, then you didn't see me 
when not skiing. Just sayin'.

So what next?

I upgraded my hoodie to another overpriced hoodie.

Retail therapy at its best.

And I took a yoga workshop with Tiffany Cruikshank.

And I ran for the first time since December November.

It went surprisingly well. Usually when I go for a run after a hiatus, it's my lungs that give out first. On Saturday, it wasn't my lungs. It was my quads. Those high altitude training aficionados may be on to something. . .

Thanks to slower recovery time due to getting older, though, I spent yesterday and today embarrassingly hobbling down stairs like I just finished the Boston Marathon. Except I ran 22.7 fewer miles. And just for kicks, I went out for another couple of miles today because I don't feel like running in the forecasted rain tomorrow (though, really, with the meteorologists' track record lately, it'll probably be sunny and 64˚ tomorrow). See? I'm actually training for next month's 10K.

That's what's next.

Intentions vs. Goals: Road Race Edition

Confession: I had my first DNF. My ego survived.

I wasn't originally planning on running an 8K last Sunday, but when my original plans for the weekend fell through, I registered for the race. 

By race day, I was under a lot of emotional stress. When that happens, my nutrition and sleep patterns go very, very out of whack. Also, thanks to a wicked cold, I'd only run twice since the Richmond Half.

I showed up at the race start because I was hoping it would improve my mood. I'd told a friend I'd see her there, and there would be a post-race breakfast. Duh.

I ran down to the race start. Nothing felt right. It wasn't like any of my muscles were tweaked. Something was just off.

I met up with my friend. My brain was not in the game. 

As I waited for the race to start, my body was telling me that I needed to return the bathroom. But, I'd toughed it out 5 miles of "having to go to the bathroom" in the past, with no real need to go in the end, so there was a chance I'd be okay.

The first three miles were uncomfortable and somewhat surreal. I had no watch and no race plan, and I didn't really care. Between miles 2 and 3, I was in dire need of a bathroom. There aren't any bathrooms on a 4.9 mile course. I thought briefly about trespassing onto construction sites, but let's get real: this was the heart of DC's federal building complexes, with 3 security cameras trained on you at any moment, and I was wearing a race bib, which at a click of a button could reveal all the same information as my driver's license. Ultimately, I dropped out of the race in front of the National Air and Space Museum, somewhere after mile 3. The friend I was running with called out, "Are you quitting?" Yes. I was. And it didn't matter. There was no way I could finish this race with the way my guts were feeling. It was supposed to be a fun run. Not a double-over-in-GI-pain run.

None of the museums were open yet, and the closest public bathroom that I knew would be open was all the way back at the Washington Monument – 9 blocks away, if you're keeping track. I made it there, but not without significant distress. I felt, at times, like a freak grimacing as I walked through the Mall with my race bib on, green skirt, and Santa hat, as non-racing runners ran by for their Sunday long runs. 

DNF, was, of course, the right call. My body, the entire system, just couldn't take it. It wasn't a matter of fortitude, and really, there was nothing to prove. If I were in better emotional shape, I would have been able to fuel better. If anything, I would have been able to push through the GI issues. But that's just not where I was on Sunday.

***

Okay, so what's the point of this race recap? Not to solicit sympathy. Really. Rather, it's to illustrate why I'm more about setting intentions than goals. And it's not because I'm a slacker. I don't feel bad about what happened. In fact, I feel the worst for my friend, who spent the time after she finished until she found me wondering whether I was okay.

This column in Yoga Journal (no idea when it was first published) does a decent job of distinguishing between goals and intentions, although I'll be the first to tell you that I am the worst meditator on the planet. Anyway, the key parts of the column for our purposes are this:

Goal making is a valuable skill; it involves envisioning a future outcome in the world or in your behavior, then planning, applying discipline, and working hard to achieve it. You organize your time and energy based on your goals; they help provide direction for your life. Committing to and visualizing those goals may assist you in your efforts, but neither of these activities is what I call setting intention. They both involve living in an imagined future and are not concerned with what is happening to you in the present moment. With goals, the future is always the focus: Are you going to reach the goal? Will you be happy when you do? What's next?

Setting intention, at least according to Buddhist teachings, is quite different than goal making. It is not oriented toward a future outcome. Instead, it is a path or practice that is focused on how you are "being" in the present moment. Your attention is on the ever-present "now" in the constantly changing flow of life. You set your intentions based on understanding what matters most to you and make a commitment to align your worldly actions with your inner values.

And even further down:

. . .  only by remembering your intentions can you reconnect with yourself during those emotional storms that cause you to lose touch with yourself. 

I don't need to spell it out for you. On Sunday, I honored the intention that I set last year of staying injury-free and healthy. 

On Gratitude, the First Half Marathon Version

My mind keeps drifting back to Richmond. Despite not reaching the time goal I'd set for myself a year ago, the race was one of my best executed. Something clicked. I can't articulate it, so here are Brightroom's pics to show some of the story.

Clicking: The first time that I've seen
myself airborne while running.

Clicking: Being so in the zone that
I have no idea where this pic was taken.

Clicking: Taking advantage of the
downhill finish.

I'm so glad that I took the leap a year ago to register for the half marathon and that the Transporter (aka Delta Mojo) responded to my text a few hours later saying that she'd registered as well.

The Transporter wins for looking like she belongs
on the cover of a women's fitness magazine.

I registered for the Richmond half marathon alone, so I expected to be there solo. But having the Transporter, whom I've known for over 20 years, in Richmond to share not only the race experience but also the before and after experience was a treat. And having the Soigneur there, too? That was the icing on top. 

soigneur

 Pronunciation: /swʌnˈjəː/

noun

Cycling

• a person who gives training, massage, and other assistance to a team, especially during a race.

Origin:

French, from soigner 'take care of'

So what's next? Depending on my health, I'm planning on running a 5K this weekend and going for a PR. Then it's ski season!

Last "week" by the numbers:

Monday (11/5): Rest.

Tuesday: 4 miles. 

Wednesday: Rest. 

Thursday: 3 miles. Rest.  Oh, and I watched Flow State. Talk about taper.... 

Friday: Rest. I started feeling a tickle in my throat.

Saturday:  Richmond Half Marathon. The throat tickle mysteriously went away.

Sunday: 7.5 mile walk. The Soigneur and I thought it would be genius to walk over to Roosevelt Island, do a loop there, and then walk home.

Monday: 1 hour vinyasa yoga. The throat tickle returns...

Tuesday: 1.25 hours yin yoga. If you ever need to stretch out the hips – in nearly every direction – take a yin class. There will be discussion of meridian lines, energy channels, and connective tissue, and you can take it or leave it, but your hips will thank you.

Wednesday: Rest.

Richmond Half Marathon Stoke: Firsts

Just so we're clear (and in case you actually read the full title to the post), no, I did not come in first. Rather, this past weekend's Richmond Half represented a series of firsts for me:

*  First half marathon;

*  First time traveling to a road race;

*  First time having buddies at the start;

*  First time I didn't need to use a port-o-potty at a race (before, during, or after); 

*  First time I forgot to have the Garmin ready to go at the start line;

*  First time with a bib that had my name pre-printed on it; and

* First time a stranger cheered me on by name, and it wasn't because I was running next to someone also named Stephanie.

A year ago, I decided it was time to graduate from the 10-mile race distance and finally race a half marathon. After years of snickering envy when I walked by cars plastered with a 13.1 bumper sticker, I, too, now have one of those. Pretty rad.

The Transporter (so named for accompanying me across the country two years ago) and the Soigneur joined me in Richmond, the former as a runner and the latter as moral support and general soinguer duties. Usually before a race, I'm alone and in my own world, so when the Transporter asked whether I had any pre-race rituals, I said no. 

Apparently, I have weird pre-race rituals. Like waking up early and eating and digesting breakfast. 

The Transporter, on the other hand, took advantage of the hotel's location 2 blocks from the starting line, and then promptly freaked out when the Soigneur, looking out the hotel window, said, "Hey? What are all those people doing?"

Remain calm. It's the 8K. Which started half an hour before the half marathon. Yes. We were still in the hotel a half an hour before our start. 

The Transporter and I wended our way to the start, peeled off our layers, handed them to the Soinguer, and we were herded toward the start. 

In the midst of timing when to shed my throwaway layer, I forgot to get my Garmin going. This lead to a mild panic for the two blocks it took for the Garmin to find a signal, and then another few miles, before I figured out that I should just hit lap at the next mile marker. How I ever ran with a regular watch in the past is beyond me.

I went into this race with a very loose time goal. I knew that with my training, it was highly unlikely I'd run the race in under two hours. The McMillan calculator, based on my Army 10-Miler time, predicted a 2:04 finish. So I aimed for faster than 2:04 because I like to exceed expectations. My plan was to hold steady until 10 miles, and then drop the pace for the last 5K. 

Miles 1-2: ~19:21 

The Transporter and I ran these first couple of miles together. The time for these two miles is my best after-the-fact guess, given the late start on the clock. Once I lost my frame of reference for time, I improvised a new race plan: hold a pace for a 2:04 finish (9:29 minute miles) until I got to 10 miles, and then drop the pace to 9 minute miles for the last 5K, if I had any gas in the tank. I'd no idea whether I'd have any gas in the tank.

Mile 3: 9:14

Somewhere along mile 3, before we went up the first "hill" (aka, overpass) a woman wearing the same shirt as me ran by and said hello. I was trying to make up time that I thought I'd lost in the first two miles and worked on settling in on a pace.

Mile 4: 9:23

Mile 5: 9:30

I worked to settle into a sustainable pace during miles 4 and 5. By now I'd realized that my watch was somewhere between a tenth to two tenths of a mile off. 

I took a gel at the end of the 4th mile and rinsed it down early in the 5th mile with two sips of blue Powerade. I inadvertently waited until the end of the line to pick up a cup, and by then all they were giving out was Powerade. Gah.

Mile 6: 9:24

Mile 7: 9:18

All last week, I kept reminding myself that a 10K was not half of a half marathon. Not that it really mattered when I stepped onto the timing mat in Joseph Bryan Park because I had no independent idea of my time. I hit 10K at 59:08, apparently. I was also forced to take the outsides of a few turns in the park because of congestion, especially during some downhills.

Mile 8: 9:30

Mile 9: 9:17

I don't really remember much of mile 8, other than I think it went into a residential neighborhood with cute homes. They gave out some gel at mile 8, and for about a quarter mile, my shoes stuck to the pavement like it was a frat basement. Not that I've ever run through a frat basement.

Mile 10: 9:27

At the end of mile 9, I took another gel. I walked while drinking water this time. The course now featured a lane marked by construction cones, for half marathoners. So my hips wouldn't feel all off balance, I tried to run in the "center" of the road, which meant running as close as I could to the construction cones. I managed to stumble over a few. Awesome. 

Then it was time for the 5K fun run!

Mile 11: 8:56

Mile 12: 8:59

Mile 13: 8:22

For a split second, I contemplated running into a port-o-potty during the 11th mile. I'd been ignoring my guts, which had been doing mild somersaults since about mile 4. Then I figured if I just ran faster, I could just wait until the end. 

In mile 12, a spectator ran out to hug the woman in front of me. I'm all for enthusiastic spectators. But you know what? I have no idea how to run around you, especially when you run onto the course, stop to hug, and take up the inside of a turn. Also, I am oxygen deprived. I straight armed the spectator as she released her hug and ran back to the sidewalk. Mile 12 also lasted forever. I spent the bulk of the mile looking at street signs, searching for the turn that would lead me to the finish. 

It turns out it was "three turns and then your downhill finish," as a woman called out in the last mile.

I love running downhill, even if it kills my quads. 

last 0.1: 7:04 pace

The finish was a surprisingly steep descent. I was with a pack of maybe 4 other women my size. We lengthened our strides and booked it down the hill together. The hill was the ultimate exercise in quick feet and steady core because I think the hill would have otherwise been really, really painful. Wow. I don't think I've ever crossed a finish line this fast before. 

Finish: 2:02:05, average 9:19 pace. Coincidentally, that was the same pace that I ran the Army 10-Miler.

Post Mortem

I almost stepped in someone's orange barf as I collected myself at the finish chute. And by "collect myself," I mean that I myself was trying not to barf as the medical people told me to keep moving. Apparently one needs to be actively barfing, rather than merely keeled over, to have medical personnel ask assistance is required.

I'm particularly excited that I executed a race plan in part by feel, and I'm thrilled that my nutrition worked out and that I didn't lose a lot of time taking gels/water. 

I made my way to the beer truck before I realized that the Soingeur had my ID and that the available beer was gross. The Transporter showed up after not long and so did the Soingeur, who had been at the finish line. Much love and gratitude to you two, for sharing this experience with me!

Heading into Half Marathon Week

Okay, friends, it's the week of the Richmond Half Marathon! Yikes!

Although my training plan actually incorporated a few races, including a 15K/10-miler, I struggled in post-Army Ten-Miler recovery. The first week out, I kept trying to go out for scheduled runs and feeling like crap 3 miles in. My 11-mile long run last weekend was a messy 7 miles. My legs were spectacularly not thrilled. Note to all the whippersnappers who may be reading this: the biggest difference that I've noticed between running now and running even 5 years ago is how much longer recovery takes. :(

Last week, Superstorm Sandy grounded me. Not only was it dangerous to spend any amount of time outside early in the week, the gym was closed. Then on Wednesday I got lazy. After last Saturday's long run, I was a sedentary lump until Thursday morning, when I ran 3 miles and then hopped on a plane. And I didn't run again until Sunday. 

I plan a couple more runs and some yoga this week. Then it's time to pack the bags, head down I-95, and see what these legs can do!

Last week by the numbers:

Sunday: 1 hour Pilates reformer & 3-hour hips and core workshop (yoga)

Monday: 1 hour vinyasa yoga. Basically the last time I stepped out of the house for 24-hours.

Tuesday: 1 hour vinyasa yoga. 

Wednesday: 10x400s. Rest. Sigh. This here is the reason going sub 2:00 on Saturday will be out of reach: not enough speed work.

Thursday: 3 miles. 

Friday: Rest. 

Saturday:  Rest. 

Sunday: 12 miles. 11 and change miles. Close enough. :)