Fumbling for the Switch

I feel myself giving up on this dream. Imagining the finish, the women celebrating OTQs, I am picturing other women, not myself. I am accepting how to get over the fact that I won’t make it. Trying to come up with other goals that are still worth fighting for.

This is self-preservation. My mind trying to have an admittedly healthier attitude to my goals. I know that they don’t matter, that my family loves me no matter what, that my self-worth should not be based on running an arbitrary time within an arbitrary window. That factors like weather and sicknesses will always be out of my control. 

In the words of Laura Green: no one cares. Whether I make it or miss it by many miles, no one cares. 

But I care. 

I do this for me. Really and truly me alone. I know it’s a selfish habit and in times of guilt I try to rationalize it (it makes me healthier, happier, more energized, a better mom, etc. etc.) but truly I do this because I love it. Because I want to see how fast I can be. Because I love that “holy shit I can’t believe I just did that” finish line moment. Because I want to believe in myself again. Because it does add to my self-worth and makes me feel good about myself. Because I love the training, even when it’s not going as well as I like. I love starting my Wednesday with a “medium" long run (what any rational person would call a long run) and feeling slightly exhausted but also fulfilled all day long. 

There are days, months, years where it breaks my heart. The heartbreaks have been racking up the past couple years. I’m desperate to hang on to this goal because I don’t want to admit my best days may be behind me, that I’ll never get to the level I was once at, that I’ll never line up at a Trials again. Age catches up to all of us eventually, I don’t want to believe it’s already caught me. But it’s been five years of struggle. (Admittedly, having a baby took more than 2 of those years.) And annoyingly enough, I don’t appear to be getting any younger. 

Still, I love it. I care about it an unhealthy amount, I know that. But I need to care, or I’ll give up. 

There’s a switch that needs to be flipped on race day and hard work out days. You have to think it’s super important in the moment or you’ll give up. The marathon is so grueling that there will be a moment where it’s overwhelming, it’s too much, you want to give up, give in, not care. Your mind is begging you to slow, even slowing your body down against your will. You need to fight back, you need to care about it like it’s everything in that moment. As ridiculous as it sounds, it needs to seem like life or death to push yourself to new depths. You need that adrenaline, that belief, that unreal power that allows someone to lift a car off a child. Your brain will seize on any crack in your armor, any speck of “this doesn’t matter.” It will compromise, give in, and give up. 

But then you cross the line, stop the watch, end the workout, and it needs to not matter anymore. Flip the switch back. Running doesn’t matter in the real world. Leading into big workouts and race day, the switch needs to be on “unimportant” or the anxiety and pressure will be overwhelming. Moreover, the switch probably needs to stay like that—nice and chill and comfortable—until mile 15 or 18 or so, until that moment of reckoning, or you’ll be too stressed to run relaxed. 

But… 

HOW?! How to flip the switch at the right moment? How to not care that much, to let it go, until that last moment? And how to run fast from the beginning—nice and chill and relaxed, but also fast—if you’re trying not to care? This last bit is the struggle I’m having in my workouts. Trying to relax and take it mile by mile and let the fast pace come to me… but when it doesn’t, and the times slip, how to stay engaged and fighting? While also relaxing so you’re not forcing it? I want to force it. It seems my only chance. But I know that’s not how this works.

Trying to channel this finish line fight...
even when the finish line isn't in sight.

If I put too much pressure on myself, I’m not likely to run well. But if I give up on my goals now, I’m not going to run well either. I wonder if my recent workouts going poorly is me giving up: too many years of struggle, too many doubts seeping in, too many excuses. My mind trying to preserve itself. 

The pressure I put on myself seems astronomical but it’s because I want it. I know no one else cares, I know it doesn’t matter. But it matters to me. I think I thrive under pressure: I need that do-or-die reason to fight. I can feel myself trying to let it go, starting to let it go, and maybe that is healthy. But the part of me that is still grasping on, knows I need to grab it with both hands and hang on like life depends on it. (Even though I know it doesn’t.) 

I need to believe or I don’t stand a chance. 

Race Report: Richmond Half Marathon 2019

Whenever I’m struggling midseason, I tell myself that it will all come together in the end. Friends and family echo the sentiment, because it has before: CIM 2014, Pittsburgh 2018, CIM 2018. Of course, there are also data suggesting the opposite: seasons that were resounding flops from start to finish, like this year’s Boston, Grandma’s 2015, and the 2016 Trials. As the Richmond half marathon, my peak race for this fall season, approached, some workouts supported the former, optimistic possibility. I wanted to believe it.

Instead, with less than two weeks to go, it fell apart.

At the end of an easy run, my Achilles started to tighten. Pretty immediately, it felt more serious than a random niggle that is forgotten by the next morning. As I watched the NYC Marathon with my Oiselle teammates, the tension in both my Achilles and my mind rose.

I took the next day off. Inspired by a comment from teammate Carrie Mack, I took the day after that off too, feeling hopeful it was one more day than I needed. My leg felt fine by then, and I wondered if I was being overly paranoid, perhaps a bit wussy. Am I just making excuses? The symptoms didn’t all match up with Achilles tendonitis, but horror stories from friends with Achilles injuries scared me.

I ran the next few days; it was tight the first day, then eased up, but by the third day, it was back to nagging. I took Saturday (what would have been my last long run) off as well.

The roller coaster of the week—will I run or not?—drove me crazy. I had the same feelings as before Grandma’s Marathon in 2015, when I got a stress reaction 3 weeks before the race. In the week between feeling a potential injury and the diagnosis, I was a wreck fluctuating between trying to cross train/hold on to my motivation and trying to come to terms with the season possibly being over. Both times I just wanted to know one way or the other—WILL I RUN OR NOT? SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME!—and every day I woke up with a different gut feeling. More than anything, I didn’t want to compromise my training for the Trials (which was set to start after a quick post-Richmond break). If I raced, even if I raced well, and it set me back a few weeks, I didn’t think it’d be worth it.

I couldn’t get an official doctor’s appointment until after Richmond, but my coach hooked me up with a PT who could see me informally (and quickly) and she diagnosed it as a calf strain, not Achilles tendonitis. That was a huge relief (less recovery time) and she told me if I spent the week cross training, I could still race. I elliptical-ed the next few days but did one last easy workout the Wednesday before the race, to see how it felt and make a final determination if I could race. My leg felt fine, but it was harder to hold the pace than it should have been. (Likely because I hadn’t run for days.) I cross trained the next day, with a quick 10-minute jog to try to get my body back in running mode. The day before the race I did my usual easy shake out, the only normal run of the last week. When I got home my husband asked, “Feeling fast and ready?” I replied, “Let’s just go with able to run.”

That day, I realized my attitude needed to change. I was grateful to run, yes, but I was also making excuses, focusing too much on the training upheaval of the last two weeks. If I wanted to get the best out of myself, I needed to prepare myself like any other race, ready to give my all. I told myself the few days before the race had been pretty normal: a short tempo (though it felt hard… shut up, pessimistic Teal!), a day mostly off, and a shakeout with strides. The calf, for all my obsession over every sensation I felt there, seemed fine.

I wanted to salvage the season right at the end, to prove all the work I’ve put in and changes I’ve made (working with a coach and sports psychologist) had an effect. I trained differently, so couldn’t compare to past seasons (possibly a good thing). Maybe I’m in better shape than I think! Maybe the unusual last few weeks will leave me super tapered and super hungry! Starting at 5:55 seemed reasonable and, in the place in my brain where hope and ambition run unfettered, I thought maybe I could pick it up later on.

Race morning was cold (yay!) but windy (not so yay). For the first two miles, it blew directly in our faces. I tried to tuck in to a group, but as always the case with early racing, groups were still fluid, splitting and reforming left and right. Near the first mile marker, a man pulled up alongside me and a few others and asked what we were hoping for. I was the only one to respond, “5:55” and as I did we hit the marker in 5:54. “Bang on.” The man said he was shooting for 5:50s, but this was good for now. My main theory for my poor performance in Twin Cities is that I ran alone and had no one to gauge off, so I was happy we formed an alliance. But after another half mile or so my watch read 6:05 pace. Our pack held steady, other runners weren’t passing us, so I tried to trust the collective pack more than my watch. But no one else had mentioned their goals. After another quarter mile or so, I started to doubt the group and forged ahead. Mr. 5:50 came with me. We hit mile 2 in 6:05.

For the most part, my sports psych efforts focused on not to berating myself when I hit a slow split. Relax, breathe, let it go. To my credit, I did that with that second split. Fine, we just need to get in a better rhythm. The wind somehow slammed us again as we made a right turn onto Arthur Ashe Boulevard and formed a new pack of maybe three guys and two other women. Mr. 5:50 beckoned us to share the work and I tried to do my part. I felt better when I was the one pushing and leading; I’ve honestly never felt like drafting helps me that much (Am I not doing it right?? Is the benefit so minuscule you don’t really notice it?) but I did appreciate the power of the pack and people to stick with. Mile 3 was 6:00. I wanted to scream, “We’re still going too slow!” But also: Relax, let it go. Don’t tense up too much. Mr. 5:50 is still here, he’s fine with this. It’s fine.

As we turned down an out and back, our pack started to reel in Kate, a Oiselle/Raleigh Distance Project athlete. I wanted to pull her into our group, but instead somehow I got dropped in the move. My pack pulled ahead, with Kate a little off the back, and me all alone behind everyone. What just happened?? Mile 4 was another 6 flat.

Mile 4: What just happened?

As we turned back onto Boulevard and headed toward the park, I caught Kate and told her we could work together. Mile 5: another 6 flat. (Did I notice or appreciate my consistency? I did not. Except to say running 6 flats consistently bummed me out.) As we entered the park Kate dropped back a bit. I felt good and like I could catch some of the people ahead, who had either been eaten up by my old pack or splintered off the back. The park is the hilliest part of the race, as soon as you enter it goes slightly up. But the main issue for me on that day was the potholes. (I actually had a temporary brain fart on the word “potholes” and distracted myself for a bit debating: Is it potmarks? That’s not right…Distractions always welcome midrace!) I felt my ankle wobbling: Oh no, this is what does my calf in! But then: My calf seems okay, fine actually. Paranoia brought more awareness of my ankle working than I’ve ever had, making me cautious and my stride feel awkward. (Like when you focus too much on one word and it starts to sound weird.) Still, I hit mile 6 in 5:56. See, I’m feeling better.

But after a disappointing next mile (6:03), as we headed up the last uphill and out of the park, things seemed to be going downhill fast. Kate caught me and I couldn’t stay with her. If I have any big regret after a race, it’s almost always that I didn’t fight harder to stick with someone. As always, as Kate ran away I told myself to not let the gap grow, that I could still catch up. Instead, she became another regret: the ones that got away.

And as always, the thoughts of dropping out came. Why am I doing this if I’m just running slowly? Usually I tell myself to continue because at least it will be a hard workout to help me later on in the season, but this was my last race of the season. It wasn’t going to help anything. Am I risking hurting my calf just to have a mediocre race? But truthfully my calf felt fine. Am I just making excuses? The pretty stupid reason I kept going: my clothes were in a bag at the finish. If I stopped, I’d have to find a way to get there and that seemed like a (very cold) hassle. I could stop when I saw my family around mile 10, but that seemed like the wrong message to send my daughter. (Even though, at two, I’m sure she wouldn’t understand or care.)

The "Another Disappointing Race,
Guess I'll Just Try and Finish" Face.

It seems like all year, when a race got hard, a make-it-or-break-it moment (should I stick with that girl or let her go?) I lacked the drive to fight. I feel like I can dig deeper in workouts than races (to be fair, workouts weren’t continuous 13-mile intervals). Realizing I once again didn’t have that fighting spirit, with 4 or 5 miles to go, was not a great spot to be. I told myself to get back into it: The victory today will be not giving up! At mile 10: The victory will be making the last 5K my fastest! But my mind and body didn’t cooperate with each other.

Around mile 10.

The last few miles are a blur of not really caring at the slower splits coming in (for those who do care: 6:07, 6:12, 12:11 for miles 10 and 11, 6:09, and 5:52 for the last downhill 1.1) and being heartbroken over this race, this season, this year. People passed me left and right and I couldn’t muster a fight. Earlier in the season, finishing in the top 3 was my goal. Lately, top 5. Through about 8 or 10 miles I was in the top 10. In the end, I finished a devastating 14th in 1:19:12.

The last mile.

My time is an eternity from my preseason goals. Given my marathon time, I hoped to be knocking on the door of a 1:15 half and a 56-minute 10 mile. That seems laughably ambitious now. But I thought surely, with a season dedicated to those distances, I’d close the gap.

Certainly the season didn’t end on the best of notes. I can’t be sure how much the calf strain affected me (what would I have been able to do if the build-up had ended normally?). But I can’t dwell on it too long. I have to find a way to get that fight back (and maybe an entire year of disappointing races is the fuel I need). Training for the 2020 Trials started yesterday. Time to turn the page.

Dream big,
Teal

Race Report: 2019 US Ten Mile Championships

Analyzing Philly led me to two broad conclusions: the weather sucked (thanks, Captain Obvious) and I got too anxious about it, trying too early to fight, flail, and force my way to a pace that should have come easier. Twin Cities Ten Mile would be different. First, the weather was down-right perfect, relieving some of the latter issue since worries about weather went out the window (into the fresh, crisp fall air). Also, I’d spent some time talking to a sports psychologist and working on ways to not get so tense and anxious so early in the race. As a bonus, I focused on being grateful to be there. Twin Cities Ten Mile was also the 2019 US Ten Mile Championship and I was allowed in the field despite not making the listed qualifying time. Without the standard, I got an entry but no support, so I paid my own way and ended up with two days in a hotel room all to myself. As a mom of a two-year-old, there may be nothing better than a solo, silent, weekend getaway (my first as a mom). Race schmace, I was going to enjoy that part.

Busy focusing on myself and my own head, I didn’t really think about the rest of the championship field. But when I arrived in St. Paul and the hype started building and friends starting relaying pace goals, the reality of racing the field (not the clock) set in. At brunch, a Oiselle teammate who raced a few years ago said she found herself way off the back after going through 2 miles in 11:20. That was much faster than I planned to run (I hoped to start no faster than 5:55 for the first 2-4 miles—or 11:50 at mile 2—and then try to cut it down). How quickly am I going to get left behind?? Still, I remembered that last year some people had run over 60 and I planned to be about two minutes under that. When I ran in the elite women’s fields at Cherry Blossom Ten Mile and Boston I had women to run with. Everyone I talked to was going out faster than me, but surely I’d find some ladies to work with.

Man oh man, was I wrong. I got dropped in the first 200 meters and literally laughed out loud. Seriously?!? It didn’t surprise me that the leaders went out hard, but I couldn’t believe that everyone else did too. They all have way more confidence than I do. I forced myself to slow down, to let them go. Surely some of them will come back. When I saw the mile 1 clock come into view, I tried to slow even more. Wayyy too fast. Coach is not going to like this. (Coach has yet to reprimanded me for a fast start, but for some reason I was very concerned about it at that moment.) Even with my attempt to slow, I hit the mile in 5:42. (It is downhill.) I could just barely see two ponytails ahead of me, and only two. Everyone else was long gone.

In the dark, as I ran alone along the river, a fox darted across the empty road in front of me. Go right ahead, Mr. Fox. I’m the only other one out here.

Lonely and far from having the start I wanted, it was time to practice my relaxation techniques. My plan was to do a quick body scan after every mile marker, focusing on relaxing my shoulders and arms. If I was in my head too much, I’d pick something external to focus on (a tree, a sign, any landmark). I didn’t want to tense up too much from the splits I was getting (fast or slow). In the second mile, I knew I needed to relax the pace, but didn’t feel like I totally slowed. My watch pace was hovering around 6:05-6:10, a bit slow, but good enough to even out that fast first mile.

Man oh man, wrong again. I hit the second mile in 6:32. WTH?!? Was that mile long and the first short!? I told myself it must be and tried to reign in any thoughts of a disaster unfolding. But I also realized that even if the markers were wrong, I was still way over pace at two miles. (After the race I noticed my Garmin, which is often off by a hundredth or two, called that mile 1.08. Still, I trust the official markers far more than wrist-based GPS.) I tried not to let that get in my head--Just get back on pace for the next mile--but the reality of that mile would haunt me.

Despite some uphill in mile 3, the next two miles were right on my planned pace of 5:55. But as I told myself I was doing it—Relax, I’m back on pace—that stupid 6:30 would pop back up. Actually, you’re still way slow. Also, you’re in last place. I tried not to let these thoughts bother me and kept reminding myself to relax, to focus on the mile I was in, but I think the tenor of my thoughts drifted downhill. If you had asked me right after the race, I would have told you mile 4 was too slow, but it was actually perfect. I started worrying the men were coming. (The race had an equalizer: the men started about six minutes behind the women and the first person—male or female—to cross the line got a bonus.) Of course, they’re coming, they’re going to pass you eventually. I could hear cheers, which assumed was them coming over the mile 3 bridge, way before I expected to. Why did this bother me? I have no idea, but I was clearly starting to stress. Try to get to mile 5 before the men catch you. Otherwise, it’s just embarrassing.

I didn’t. The embarrassment was just beginning. Mile 5 was 6:08 and I think I started accepting it wasn’t my day. How defeatist was I? How much did I give up? I don’t remember, I think I tried to stay in the mile, to remember my relaxation techniques, but I couldn’t get my legs to go. My stomach wasn’t right, I wanted to stop and use the bathroom. Who cares, I’m running crappy anyway. I’m running slow and in Dead F’ing Last, it doesn’t matter. This is an embarrassment. Again, I wondered why I was doing this. I guess I didn’t deserve to be in this field. 

Mile 6 was slower still (6:13) and I started thinking I was once again running my VA Beach/Philly pace. (I wasn’t; I was still averaging faster, but that’s where my mind jumped to, which was decidedly defeatist.) I wanted to drop. If I’m in such dire straits I have to stop completely, then surely that would excuse away why I ran so terribly up to that point. But all I really wanted was a porta potty and even that wasn’t dire yet. Despite nearly always wanting to, I’d never dropped out of a race and didn’t want to start a trend. DFL is better than DNF. At least I’ll get a workout out of it. Once again, did just deciding not to quit mean I gave up a bit? Could I have pressed harder?

At mile 7, whether because the course starts going slightly downhill after three miles of slight uphill or because I realized I was only three miles from the finish or because I could once again see a ponytail ahead (amongst the guys continuing to stream past), I seemed to find a slightly new gear. This is the marathoner in me, it just takes this long to get me rolling. Somehow I missed mile markers 7 and 8, but I had the sense that, although I was still far from the pace I wanted, I wasn’t continuing to slow like I had at Philly. (I was actually right about this one: I averaged 6:06 for miles 7-9). Just get to the finish line… and then keep running for the restroom.

With a mile to go I dug a little more and tried to push. Even though I had nothing really left to fight for I tried to give it what I had and finished in 1:00:29. The only (albeit minuscule) victory of the day: unlike Philly, the last (downhill) mile (5:41) was my fastest, even faster than the blazing start. A reminder that there’s always more left than I think.

Classic stop-the-watch pose. Even when the watch shows
a disappointing time, God forbid it shows two extra seconds.

But to recap, I started at the back of the pack and passed no one. A steady stream of guys—and a fox—passed me. I finished minutes off my goal time. It was… demoralizing.

The stomach issues immediately eased off and after some all-too-familiar tears with a teammate in the tent, I spent the rest of the day trying to enjoy the last moments of my “vacation”: getting a free massage in the VIP tent, going to a bakery, reading on the plane. I thought at any moment the dissonance between how I wanted this race to go and how it actually went would come crashing down, but, back at home, it was back to the business of real life. It wasn’t until I sat down the write this, a few days later, that the reality of this race hit me. I have no idea why it went so poorly. The weather was absolutely perfect, the weekend stress-free. Maybe running alone for so much (i.e. the entire race) let the race mentality ease off a bit; I train alone and think I can race alone, but of course I run best when I have people to work with, even if only for a few miles. Maybe my training’s not where I thought it was and my PR hopes were a little delusional. Maybe my ferritin is still low. (Editor’s note: I did get the latter checked. In August, it was even lower than last May, but is now getting back to May levels. Which, to be fair, were still less than ideal.) Maybe it was just a bad day, which we all have, but that doesn’t make that explanation any more satisfying. It felt a lot different than Philly; it wasn’t so aggravatingly tough, I just couldn’t go. (Maybe I was too relaxed??)  That makes it even more frustrating.

Although I know no one cares as much about my running as me, and probably no one even realized I got last place until I wrote this treatise about it, I’m embarrassed by my performance (and this entire year). Maybe I didn’t deserve to be in that field. But I do not, in my heart, believe that to be true. Yea I got last, but someone had to. My ten-mile PR remains decidedly sub-par (I’ve run faster for the first ten miles of a half marathon), but I think I deserved to be there based on my marathon time. Why I can’t get my other PRs in line with that one is the crux of this chapter of my running story.

One more race to go. How will this chapter end?

Dream big,
Teal

Race Report: Rock-n-Roll Philly Half Marathon 2019

My goals for this fall are to improve my half marathon and ten mile PRs. I haven’t dedicated a season to shorter stuff (i.e. not marathons) since 2012 and I ran my half and ten mile PRs off marathon training, not training specific to those distances. (Unofficially, both PRs actually come from the same race.) On the way to my peak races (Twin Cities Ten Miler and Richmond Half), I planned to run Rock-n-Roll Virginia Beach as a hard workout and Rock-n-Roll Philly as my first real race effort. Though Philly was just a stepping stone to the later races, I’d go in tapered and mentally jacked, ready to give my best effort on the day.

The Virginia Beach half workout, two weeks before Philly, went close to expected. The plan was to start slower than marathon pace, gradually pick it up to marathon pace, and race the last few miles if I felt good and the weather cooperated. Though it was humid, I didn’t feel terrible and tried to pick it up at the end, but wasn’t successful. Still, I averaged 6:15 pace so it was a solid workout and the best/longest effort I’d had since Boston. I was excited to see what I could do in Philly, when tapered and given permission to really go for it.

My pace goal for Philly was to run 6:00, which seemed hard but not unreasonable. More than a specific pace, though, I wanted to focus on process goals. (Process goals are within your control, unlike an outcome goal—like a time or place—that depends on weather, other competitors, etc.) Lately I’ve been wondering if my two biggest weaknesses—heat/humidity and any distance shorter than a marathon—are in some part self-fulfilling prophesies. I tell myself I’m bad in that kind of weather and at that kind of distance and so… I run poorly. (Certainly there is truth to both issues: tough conditions will slow times down, the marathon is my strength. But I seem to be so much of an anomaly in both situations that I wonder if part of it is mental.) One of my power words this season is capable, to remind myself that I am capable of running well in poor conditions and I am capable of running faster in shorter stuff. With Philly, I wanted to run strong even if the weather sucked, to be tough when I needed to be, and to finish feeling proud that I gave what I had and didn’t let negativity get the best of me. I was also going up against a course that repeatedly plagued me in the past; I wanted to finally manage a win. All week long I talked myself up, reminding myself that I really wanted to fight when it got hard and not give up, no matter the time.

Race day was humid as always: 71° and 90% humidity. (On paper, it was similar to VA beach, but Philly felt much worse in my opinion.) This race gets a fast field (Desi, Jordan, Becky Wade, Lindsay Flanagan, and others, plus a ton of my speedy friends from DC and Richmond). At the gun, everyone flew by and I tried to reign in the excitement and not go out too fast. I looked at my watch approximately 8 million times to stay in check and remind myself to relax. The first four miles wind through the city, so my watch’s pace was wildly inaccurate, but I managed to twice follow a slightly too fast mile with a slightly too slow one and hit 4 miles right on pace. That seemed promising, although looking back now I may have been working a little too hard/in my head too much for so early in the race. (Though it’s easy to say this now given that I know how it ended up). I was also splashing water on my head as soon as possible. (Literally at the first water stop. Though I missed my head and hit the guy behind me in the face. Whoops, sorry!! Hope it was refreshing!)

Mile 1: Feeling fine. 

Mile 5 was slow (6:15), but I’ve had a slow mile in this section before and let it derail me, so this time I had prepared myself to not let it bug me. My old GRC teammate Catherine caught me and I was excited to run with her and work together. Mile 6 was better though still a little slow (6:04), but my head was spiraling a bit. I was trying to fight it off, to stay with Catherine, to work on digging deep. I knew having Catherine was such a blessing and was helping me keep it together; I didn’t want to let that opportunity go. But I was wondering why I was doing this at all. This sucks. Maybe I should stop racing, I’m not that good.

Mile 7: With Catherine on my right.

I tried to focus on my mantra for the race, but became intimidated by how long I’d need to repeat it. Mile 7 was another 6:15, so was mile 8. I was falling apart and trying not to bargain with myself. Just don’t drop out. There’s nothing wrong with you and no need to drop out. At least finish. …. Uh, that’s bargaining with myself. How did I get from fighting with everything I had to convincing myself to just not quit entirely? I fell back from Catherine at this point and though I tried to tell myself to get back to her, the gap continued to grow.

I thought hitting the bridge at mile 9 and heading back towards the finish would be a mental boost. But mile 9 was my slowest yet (6:30!). Miles 10 and 11 were slightly better (~6:20) but I was desperately just trying to get to the finish. I really wanted to stop and walk. I wanted to cry. Why am I here AGAIN, running so poorly?? Women were passing me, some encouraging me to go with them, but I had no fight, no will do it. I figured I’d be slower than VA Beach and had nothing to fight for. Even as I got closer, I didn’t manage to kick it in. The last 2.1 miles were my slowest (more 6:30s).

Mile 10: Desperate to be done.

When I could finally see the clock, I realized it would be closer to my VA Beach time than I thought, but it was too late to do anything about it. I finished 9 seconds slower, for another 6:15 average. (Though, man oh man, did I come about it a different and more terribly, awful way. I do not recommend it.)

I had to fight back tears at the finish (FYI it’s really difficult to cry when out of breath: it comes out in ragged gasps which feel like choking, though happy tears don’t seem to have this problem), but when I made it to the elite tent and saw some friends I lost it. It wasn’t the time that bothered me as much as the lack of fight. I have a lot of issues with confidence and toughness and the race seemed to confirm my suspicions. Yes, it was humid, but people PRed left and right. Why couldn’t I fight better? Why didn’t I?

Since the race, I’ve started talking to a sports psychologist (which was already in the works before Philly, though the race confirmed the need). I’m realizing that I need to relax a lot more early on (easier said than done!) and respond to negative feedback (a bad split, being passed by a pack, etc.) with less judgement. Even as I try mentally to be positive, my body is probably physically too tensed up, too ready to fight too early (which ironically robs me of the fight when I need it later). There’s lots to explore here and I’m just getting started but I’ll update as I try some tactics (like relaxation techniques, regular body scans, counting slowly) and see what works.

Despite my efforts to win one on this course, the race was a rerun of the 2012 edition. And just like past years, I find myself in the September slump. But in the past that slump has been followed by fast times when the heat and humidity finally lift. This year I ran a totally awful, demoralizing, humid half two minutes faster than last September's totally awful, demoralizing, humid half. So I'm right on track for a two-minute PR in November, right?

Dream big,
Teal

Race Report: Army Ten Miler 2018

After the Navy Half, things seemed to turn around. The weather improved, workouts went better, the September slump was ending! Maybe I could pull off the same comeback as 2014, when a bad September race was forgotten by a big PR at the Army Ten Miler and the trajectory of the season seemed to shift.

But the weather had one last (please let it be the last!!) dose of humidity to smother us with, just in time for Army. I didn’t want a repeat of the Navy Half, where I completely crumbled in the second half, so I knew I had to adjust my goals even more. I put aside my hopes of PRing at this race and tried to take a more modest approach. I wouldn’t worry about outcome goals like time or place, instead I’d focus on process goals, which are more about strategies used and aren't affected by things out of our control (like weather and other competitors). My new goal became to negative split. I’d go out slow and pick it up at halfway. Surely I could do that and come away feeling successful, which is what I needed most of all.

Mile 2. Taking it so easy I can do this with my eyes closed.

I started slowly, a few seconds back from the line, and tried not to worry about the women surging ahead. But once again, it was hard to turn off my overanalyzing inner monologue. Is this easy enough?? I told myself it was and I hit 5 miles just over 6:10 pace, the slow end of my “start easy” range. OK, first part of the mission was a success. Surely I can pick it up from here. Around the loop by the 10K, I felt good, catching some of the men around me, feeling like I had another gear to shift to. I caught a woman as we started up the long, endless (~2 mile) bridge/highway, and reminded myself this time I was racing smarter; catching people rather than being caught. But the next two miles were more of the same pace-wise, a hair over 6:10. I wasn’t actually picking it up at all.

Mile 8 was even worse, the bridge hadn’t ended yet and went up ever so slightly to swing us around to the off ramp. The split was the worst of the day. Rather than getting faster, I was slowing drastically, again. 

I told myself to really push the last two miles, and coming off the highway (it’s always a joy to get the heck of 395) and seeing my family made me smile through the pouring sweat. But once more, the split was slower than expected, nearly as slow as mile 8. From the bridge onwards I had slowly reeled in a friend and I finally pulled alongside and slightly ahead in the last half mile. I finally found another gear to push with, but it seemed in vain given how ridiculously off my goals I was. At least I can make this mile the fastest. At least I can finish strong.

The last mile.

I finished in ninth, in 1:02:01. If I had known my chip time was so close to breaking 1:02 would I have kicked harder? I don’t know. I was so far off my early season goals it’s embarrassing. I didn’t even get my “surely I can at least negative split” process goal either, as my second half was 20 seconds slower than my “slow start.” Surprisingly, ninth is the highest I’ve ever placed at Army, which shows how much the weather slowed things (my best time at Army is almost 2 minutes faster).

But I am, as always, so sick of blaming the weather. I know it affects times, obviously, but everyone is dealing with the same conditions. I seem to melt a little more: am I psyching myself out too early? Mostly I find that humidity saps me of my fight. I need to find a way to fight back harder.

I hoped that Army would be the moment that things turned around, like they did in 2014. But I need to remember that I can’t capture 2014’s magic exactly, things will be different season to season. (Not least because the weather was nearly ideal for Army that year.) I continue to struggle with learning that lesson, that I can’t compare everything to previous seasons. I need to find a new way to make some magic this time around.

Dream big, 

Teal

September Slump

The summer of speed ended with a thud. My goal 5K was grossly humid (a constant torment, see below) and I went out at the pace my track workouts told me was possible, hoping to finally master the bravery and suffering required of a fast 5K. Instead, I fell apart hard and finished way off my goal.

So I’m still not great at 5Ks, so what? There will be another time to try to conquer that beast again. It was time to get back to my bread and [peanut] butter: marathon training.

The first few weeks went well, surprisingly well. Maybe the 5K training is paying off?! But while on vacation at the end of August I had a bad workout. I blamed vacation and being out of my rhythm, but when I got home, it was more of the same. Every workout was wildly off my goal pace and twice I cut them short, totally discouraged. It was always 98% humidity, but: Hadn’t I managed decent workouts despite the humidity all summer?

Going into my first race of the season, the Navy Half Marathon, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t really have the long, hard efforts to back myself up, but I tried to focus on the workouts I was hitting just a few weeks ago. I hoped to run around 1:20 (6:06 pace) and thought that would put me near the top. Given my shaky confidence, I decided starting at 6:10 would be more realistic. When that seemed ambitious too, I tried to stay positive. Don’t give up on yourself before the race even starts. I didn’t look at the humidity. Better to not psych myself out.

For the first mile I tried not to go out too hard and found myself with two other women; collectively our pack was in second. I kept telling myself to take it easy and when the split (6:16) was slower than my plan of 6:10, I took it as a good sign. Over the next couple miles I kept trying to run relaxed and not worry that the splits were closer to 6:15s than 6:10s. It is humid, so slower is probably smarter.

The early miles.
[Photo credit: Cheryl Young]

But despite trying to stay relaxed, I was obsessing over my effort way too much for so early in the race. I couldn’t shut my brain off and was constantly scrutinizing how I felt, which ended with thinking that I really just wanted to drop out. I told myself I had to at least make it to my family (around mile 7) but that reminded me I couldn’t drop out there either. I had dragged them to DC for this race, I had to make it worth it. (Having my family at races continues to be one of my best mid-race motivators.)

Around mile 4 my old teammate Kerry caught up to me. I was happy to get to run with her, it’s been a long time since we’ve run together. I remembered that (possibly?) the last time we had run side-by-side through Hains Point was a workout leading up the 2016 Trials. Despite Kerry’s valiant efforts helping me that day, the workout had gone terribly. Yikes, don’t think about that! Today will be better.

Side by side with Kerry.
[Photo credit: Cheryl Young]

Last year, the combination of a super caffeinated gel and seeing my family had been like rocket fuel, so I tried to replicate it by scarfing down a gel before mile 7. But I struggled to get it down and lost Kerry. I knew if I let her go I’d fall apart and sure enough, the unraveling began.

I did get to see my family just after that, and Baby had learned a new phrase “Go, Mommy!” which was the highlight of the race. But on the out-and-back up Rock Creek Parkway I was slowing drastically and waiting for the inevitable. When will I be caught? I was now in third and figured the women from the first few miles along with other friends couldn’t be far behind. I couldn’t believe how much I was slowing and I just wanted to stop. But maybe the reason I was running so poorly was because I had given up on myself too much recently, and I really needed a longer, harder effort. No matter what, I need to finish the workout.

"Go, Mommy!"

A slight change in the course meant we had to endure a steep hill at the turn around at mile 8.5. I slowly shuffled up it and on the way down could see my competitors coming for me. Despite the cheers of the other runners heading for the turn around (thank you all!!), I continued to crumble. Around mile 11 another old teammate, Maura, caught me. She, like Kerry, tried to urge me to keep up but I couldn’t hang on. By the last mile it was all I could do to not stop and walk. In the last quarter mile I was passed by yet another friend and had no response.

I finished way off my goal pace and place and left feeling completely defeated, similar to how I felt after my last 5K. But a half is more in my wheelhouse, what’s wrong with me? I did at least finish and was crazy sore (and dehydrated) afterward, which told me that—no matter how slow—it was still a tough workout. 

Which reminds me of something I wrote after a nearly identical race, 2014's Rock-n-Roll Philly. It was also humid, my early pace was too ambitious, I fell apart and essentially jogged it in. But despite a similar September slump, that season ended well, with a huge PR at CIM. Sometimes I get caught up trying to prove my fitness in a workout or at a race, but that’s not the point of these early season efforts. Instead the point is to gain fitness, so I’m focusing on doing the work, taking care of myself, and knowing there’s plenty of time to turn things around.

In the meantime Baby continues to say “Go, Mommy” at random times, which is always encouraging.

Dream big,
Teal

No Buildup's Perfect

“Erase from your mind that your preparation must be perfect. Hard work plus dedication equals a shot at your dreams.” – Kara Goucher

In March, a day after my failed attempt at 16 miles at sub-2:45 pace, Brother asked why I was wallowing over the workout. He laughed, “Marathon pace workouts?! Those things are so freaking tough; no one hits those dead on.”

I snapped back, “But I did! Before CIM! That’s how I knew I could run the Trials standard.”

And so I kept wallowing. I wasn’t sure I could run 2:45 pace in a race if I didn’t in practice. So I attempted the workout again. And failed again. And yet… on race day I did run sub-2:45. Because marathon pace workouts are so freaking tough, and it’s rare to hit them dead on.

Just because I didn't run well on this one day... 

I feel like I’ve done you all a bit of a disservice. Here on the blog and in interviews I rattle on an on about the one workout that helped me get to the Olympic Trials the first time, to the point that people have reached out to me to ask more about it. (Which is awesome! I always love hearing from you guys!) The gist of the workout: a long run of 18-22 miles with 12-16 miles in the middle at goal race pace. (I peak at 16 pace miles after building up to it over the years and over the course of each season.) I’ve always said that if you nail this workout, you are ready to nail the marathon. It’s a hard grind that you’ll likely do alone, in the middle of a high mileage week. If you can nail it then, you’ll be ready on race day when you’re tapered and high on adrenaline.

But what happens if you don’t nail the workout? Is the inverse true? Does failing at this one workout mean you’ll fail at the marathon?

No, because it’s only one workout. Every season is an accumulation of workouts, long slogs, hard tempos, intervals, easy days, strides, core, strength, eating right, sleeping enough. No build up is perfect. It’s too long, life is too messy, the weather is too uncontrollable. Every season has its share of bad days. The trick is to focus on the things that go well and forget the rest. (“Remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.”)

Before Pittsburgh, those failed attempts weighed on me. How could I be confident enough to go for a Trials qualifier when I didn’t run my tried-and-true confidence booster? But I was giving that workout too much power; just because I made it to the Trials by one route before, didn’t mean I had to take exactly the same route this time. I looked back over the rest of my workouts and everything else—tempo runs, track workouts, tune-up races—was on par with that magical CIM season. I was in similar shape overall. All that work didn’t disappear because of a couple of bad days. So I put my faith in the total, in the accumulation of miles, rather than in one or two big workouts.

And honestly, I wasn’t wildly off. I’ve had some seasons where I’ve tried to force things when I didn’t have too much evidence to go off, with disastrous consequences. (If there are more bad days and than good days, it’s probably time to reevaluate your goals or give your body a break before it breaks.) But I did run pretty close to my goal (four seconds per mile slow the first time, six seconds the second time), even if it took some convincing for me to see that. I whined and moaned at the time that it wasn’t close enough; it wasn’t perfect. But I wasn’t that far off. I looked back at my past marathons (other than CIM) and realized I often ran about five seconds per mile faster on race day than in a workout. Hoping to run a little faster on race day wasn’t being totally unrealistic.

(I still think marathon pace workouts are the most important workouts of marathon training; they are the most similar to the marathon physiologically and psychologically. They deserve to be given top priority and hard effort. But if the effort is there and the pace is a few seconds slow, it’s not the end of the world. They aren’t the only workout.)

... it doesn't mean I can't run well on this one.

The thing about nailing the most important workout is it’s an easy confidence boost; if you run a long effort at race pace, you’re ready. It’s harder to see that you might still be ready, even if you don’t quite hit it exactly. It takes confidence and knowing your body and the kind of shape you’re in, based on the total season. That can be tough. Experience and looking back on old training logs can help, as can coaches and outside perspectives.

Of course, you need to have an accumulation of something; you can’t run well on optimism and hopes alone. I know I also blab on about dreaming big and believing in yourself, but obviously you have to do the work too. Dreaming big gets you out of bed in the morning to do the work (and maybe also into bed early to get that crucial sleep!) Believing keeps you in the game when doing the work/running the race gets really freaking hard. But behind it all is a base of hard work. Of grinding, of sweat in your eyes, sun beating down, muscles aching to quit, stomach urging to rebel, of hard freaking work. Dreaming and believing won’t get you anywhere without those really tough workouts.

But that doesn’t mean they all have to go perfectly.

Dream big,
Teal

Readjusting

One thing I'm admittedly bad at is reading too much into one workout. When a major one goes poorly, my confidence tanks. On the other hand, a good one is sometimes all I need to carry me through a big PR. It’s a lot of pressure to put on myself, but sometimes that works: knowing that I have no option but to succeed. Sometimes, though, it doesn't.... as evidenced by a recent marathon pace workout.

I prefer to run my last marathon pace (MP) effort 3-4 weeks before the marathon. But this season, I had my heart set on racing both the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler and the Monument Avenue 10K, which are four and three weeks out from Pittsburgh, respectively. I didn’t want to run the MP the weekend before those races either, because that would be three hard weekends in a row (and that’s gotten me into trouble before). So I decided to do the last MP six weeks out. When I planned this all out, I knew thinking I could hit that pace that early was ambitious, but I’m nothing if not ambitious. I figured if it went well that early in the season, I’d really be set to race well at Pittsburgh. And because I stubbornly wanted to do those other two races, I didn’t see a way around it.

The problem with this run is that I really, 100% needed to nail it. I usually gradually work my way down to marathon pace over the course of the season; I just don’t retain the speed over the off-season to jump into goal pace right away (though most plans assume you do it that way). For example, this season I wanted to do four MPs (each a few weeks apart) with the following goals:
8 miles at 6:30
10 miles at 6:25
13 miles at 6:20
16 miles at 6:17 (OTQ pace)

I needed to nail that last one because (a) even if I nailed the others, it’s the only chance I gave myself to do a long effort at goal pace, (b) I didn’t nail all the others (the 13 miler was actually 6:29, though I had a cold that day and it was crazy windy), and (c) I get a lot of confidence from this workout: running 16 miles at OTQ pace was the best evidence I had going into CIM that I could qualify and I relied on it heavily. I’m not sure I can convince myself to go after an OTQ without it.

Well, I didn’t nail it. I averaged 6:21 pace, which is faster than the windy 13 miler and a hair faster (but much longer!) than the 10 miler (actual pace for that was 6:22), so most people will probably think I’m insane in how much this run disappointed me. I went in believing I could do it and, though I was obviously struggling, I don’t think I ever fully gave up on myself. I told myself I’d make up time on the downhills, but I didn’t. With a few miles to go, I was still trying to calculate a way I could make it: Just run the last two miles at 5:50 pace! (Told you I was ambitious…) But I didn’t pick it up, even slightly, even in the final mile. I just didn’t have it and I don’t have any excuses, really, which makes it harder to get over than the 13 miler.

… Except, of course, the major one I stubbornly refuse to accept: that it was too early in the season to expect to hit this workout.

Instead, I spent days fretting about what I would do. I worry that I’m in over my head trying to run so crazy fast on a hilly course. Why the heck did I pick Pittsburgh? I started looking for other races to do (something flat for crying out loud!), maybe even a week or two later. But of course I ran up against the same problems that made me pick Pittsburgh in the first place.

I know I sound crazy with all this, but I really want to prove to myself I can run at OTQ pace for a long chunk. I didn’t used to be quite so anal and, looking back now, I see that I was often able to run faster in races than during these workouts. But I keep coming back to CIM. Again, I know it’s problematic to keep comparing everything to that season, but I know how crucial running 16 miles at goal pace was for my confidence. And with a harder course and no pacers, I’m going to need all the help I can get.

So I fretted and fretted about this very bad run, until finally my stubbornness unclenched slightly and allowed some logic to seep back in. If I’m going to compare everything to CIM, I need to be fair. And six weeks out from CIM, I ran 13 miles at 6:18 pace, six seconds off my goal pace. This workout was six weeks out from Pittsburgh, and I ran 16 miles four seconds per mile off my goal pace. That’s both farther and faster at the same point in training. If I give myself another shot in a few weeks, I might just be able to shave off those seconds, just like I did before CIM. (Three weeks out I ran 16 miles averaging 6:12—OTQ pace at the time.) Which means I need to try again.

Trying again in a few weeks means admitting that I can’t do everything I wanted this season: I’m going to have to skip the Monument 10K and redo this workout that weekend. I’m surprisingly disappointed to miss out on the 10K; it's only a 10K after all. But I was hoping for a chance to PR at some distance this spring, and my 10K PR is probably the softest PR I have. (It’s actually from the first part of a half marathon.) I was also looking forward to running a big hometown race and all the “It’s not RVA without the 10K” signs around town have seeped into my subconscious. But racing Cherry Blossom and having another chance at this workout make more sense for my marathon prep than doing a 10K. The good news is that not racing Monument means I’ll be able to cheer on Husband instead and try to give back a little bit of all the support he gives me.

And after all that desperate Googling for other marathons, doing just the opposite—finally signing up for Pittsburgh—got me surprisingly excited, because I got to do so as an elite, which comes with travel assistance and other perks (like another personalized bib!). Maybe it seems silly and insignificant, but sometimes someone else believing in you, based on some time you ran in what seems like another lifetime, helps you believe in yourself.

I was so bummed after this workout that I avoided writing about it in my log until this morning, but writing this all out has helped, as did looking back at other seasons and accurately assessing what I’ve done in the past. (So I encourage you to journal or keep a log. Even if you don’t share your neuroses, stubbornness, and ambitious plans that flop with the world.) I’m embarrassed how much this workout threw me off, but I need to be realistic about where I'm at, understand that I can't do everything, and prioritize what will help most for the marathon. And give myself another chance to see what I can do with a few more weeks of training.

Moving on... 

Dream big,
Teal

Patience

We bought a house.

No, wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. We’re under contract on a house and hoping to close early next month. We haven’t exactly bought it yet.

Which brings me to this post's title: patience. Buying a house (our first) is a lesson in a lot of things: legal speak, perfecting your signature, not having a heart attack over the biggest purchase of your life. But mostly it’s reminding me that I need to work on my patience.

I'm not a very patient person. We order a pizza and I want it immediately. What do you mean they can’t bake and deliver it in 30 seconds??  I’m hungry now. We put an offer on a house that we love and I want to move in immediately. What do you mean we have to wait seven weeks? Who cares about paperwork and packing? I want to live there now.

And, obviously this applies to running, too. I want results immediately. That’s why off days/bad weather/disappointing races are so frustrating. I have to wait six months (or four years) for another opportunity? I want a PR now.

Patience is vital to running. You can’t force things too quickly—you’ll end up hurt or burnt out. One of the biggest keys to long-term running success is faith in the process, the slow accumulation of miles and workouts over years. In some races it comes together beautifully, sometimes not.

When it doesn’t, it can be tough to take. But as I’ve said before: training pays off even when races don’t go as planned. In the meantime, we need to be patient in two ways. First, mentally: trusting that our chance will come again, that one race is not the only race there ever will be, that our faster/stronger/tougher bodies are still there and will prove themselves another day.

And second, we need to be patient in our approach. If you’re looking ahead to a fall race, annoyed by a spring result, keep patience in mind. Don’t double your mileage, dedicate two more hours a day to lifting, and overhaul your entire training process (especially if race day was an anomaly in an otherwise great season). Focus on a tweak or two to make here or there: maybe more miles at goal pace, or foam rolling for a few minutes every day, or a renewed commitment to core work. Doing too much too soon is a consequence of impatience, and it only leads to injury. (And injury will require even more patience.)

It’s not easy, and every off-season I’m reminded of my struggles with patience. But I’ve found that focusing on a slight tweak each season helps remind me that I’m making progress. Maybe you’ll get stuck temporarily, feeling like you’ve hit a plateau, but with patience you’ll break through.

I came to DC for graduate school seven years ago and stayed longer than I thought I would. The house we (haven’t yet) bought is in Richmond, Virginia, where Husband and I met a decade ago. For the last few years, we’ve dreamed about moving back, “settling down” in suburbia, where we can afford a big house with a yard, where Target and Trader Joe’s are a quick drive away (and they have parking!!), where Husband's family is nearby. Now, finally, we’re making moves in that direction; we’ve found that suburban house and are currently just three weeks away from closing.

I suppose I can wait a few more weeks.

Mr. RunnerTeal and I met at the University of Richmond and then got married 
(and practiced our handoffs) there a few years later. Now, we're headed back.

Dream big,

Teal 

Snowzilla

Last time I alluded to one of the annoying things about a February marathon. Here’s the other, more serious one: the weather. I live in Washington DC, not northern Minnesota, so I can’t complain. Or rather, I shouldn’t. But I’m going to anyway.

Because I had my biggest, most important workout scheduled for the weekend Snowzilla decided to invade the East Coast.

Yea, it's pretty... but it's not all about looks, people.
Where can I train?? 

I rearranged all my workouts, moving my last big workout (a long run with most of the miles at goal marathon pace) from Sunday to Friday (pre-Snowzilla attack). I figured, after my big workout, I’d be content and relieved to be on the treadmill the rest of the weekend, glad to be done with the monster workout before the monster snowstorm.

Except the content feeling never came, because Friday’s workout went terribly.

It was slow—way too slow. I ran a loop I have always hated (Hains Point) because my go to route (Beach Drive) is only open to runners on weekends. The wind seemed brutal, my gels were solid rocks, and my stomach didn’t want to handle anything. But those excuses don’t seem to justify why it went so poorly. I was desperately trying to talk myself back into it, to not be negative, to put the last bad mile behind me and try to get back on a reasonable pace for the next one, but nothing seemed to be working. My legs just would not go faster.

The redeeming quality of multiple Hains Point loops was that Kerry had again offered to help out, and she could jump in for a mile here and there. And once again, I owe her eight zillion thank yous. I wanted to give up. Brutally. Alright, running demons, you win, I’m done. I knew I shouldn’t give up on the workout—even though I was going WAY too slowly—because I needed to get in a workout somehow. There’s no making up this one (we’re too close to the race and now all the roads are covered in snow), so slow was better than nothing. I knew that and kept reminding myself of it, but it didn’t matter. It was Kerry’s presence—and her bright vest coming around the bend like a neon angel—that made me not.

When the struggle fest was over and I finally warmed up inside, it seemed all hope had been sucked out of me, by the wind, by the demons, by my evil watch for telling me splits I didn’t care to see. I wanted to run much faster for this workout; I wanted to prove to myself that my goal pace for the marathon is possible. If I hit it in this workout I’d be ready, just like before CIM. Once again, I needed proof I wasn’t being bat$#*! crazy about my goals. But this was slower than the marathon pace workout I did over Christmas, which I also declared as too slow at the time. And it was slower than this workout pre-CIM.

I started to think I’m being completely nuts. I’ve actually adjusted my outlandish goals from the beginning of the season to be ever so slightly more realistic, and now even those seem entirely delusional. I started thinking about all the people who warned me to just to enjoy the LA race, not put too much pressure on myself, not go for some crazy goal only to end up upset. That approach isn’t me, but during and after this workout, giving in suddenly seemed logical and inevitable. Maybe I shouldn’t be going for a PR; I’m not in shape to anyway. Why stress about it?

Man, the demons know exactly what to say to bring you down. I know my goals aren’t always rational or logical, but going for them anyway is what I love to do. I remember this same workout from last season. It also went poorly, only much, much more so. (In fact, every marathon pace workout from that season was a disaster.) I didn’t have time to complain about it, because I ended up hurt instead, but I do remember the day after that terrible workout I was talking myself back into believing my ridiculous goal was still possible. I had less to go on then. Where did that Teal go? And how do I get her back?

After spending the remainder of Friday in a total I Hate Running Funk, I woke up Saturday and tried to find a glimmer of hope, a small piece of evidence, that I’m not crazy to still chase my ambitious goal.

For starters, I am in better shape than ever before. I can’t base everything on one workout; everyone has bad days. The rest of this season’s workouts (and the half) have been slightly faster than past seasons. So that’s good.

But how much faster? Not enough. I never hit the pace I want to hit on race day in a long workout. I relied heavily on the fact that I had run 16 miles at 6:12 when I attempted to run 26 miles at 6:12 at CIM. I don’t have that this time. How the fudge can I expect to go faster for longer?? But I think—perhaps similarly to not basing everything off one workout—I need to stop comparing everything to one race. CIM was the best race of my life, obviously, but that doesn’t mean that to have another great race everything has to align in exactly the same way, right? (Not necessarily a rhetorical question, as I seem to be having a hard time convincing myself of this.) 

But as I searched through my logs from previous marathons, I found my glimmer:

Before the season I ran CIM, I rarely (i.e. never) hit marathon pace in workouts. I almost always ran faster on race day. (Boston 2014 is the only exception.) Also, my workouts where I tried to hit goal pace used to be shorter than they are now. So I had much farther to go on race day and I still ran faster.

Part of me feels like that was another lifetime ago. That was some other Runner Teal—can I really still do that?

But part of the reason I was super bummed after Friday’s workout was that it drained some of the Trials excitement out of me. Listen, I’m a running super nerd: I am so excited to line up with my idols, I can’t wait to see the men speed by me, or to get a live account of the women’s race as we do our out and backs on Figueroa St. I am still beyond thrilled to be invited. BUT I’m also excited to race myself—literally, to race against myself—and to try to get this big PR I’ve been dreaming of. When I think it might not be possible or that I shouldn’t go for it, I get really bummed and it steals some excitement from the whole enterprise. Because no matter what those demons are trying to tell me, I really do want to go for it.

Snowzilla dumped its snow and moved on, up the East Coast. Yet it continues in my head. I got walloped with two feet worth of cold reality this weekend, and I still feel like I’m sitting in a blizzard of negativity and reasons to give up. But I have a little morsel of hope, providing just a little light and warmth: I’ve run faster in races than in practice before. It’s years old and fading fast… but I’m clinging to it, as the storm rages on.

Trudging forward. 

Dream big,

Teal

P.S.- Gratitude update: I’m still healthy. At this point last time I was dealing with a season-ending injury, but so far I've made it through, into the taper, in one piece. And that is HUGE. So no matter my mental demons, I’m incredibly grateful for that.