Race Report: 2014 Firecracker 5K

In response to last week’s query, I’ve discovered I can run two miles around six minute pace. I cannot, however, run three.

But before we get into last week’s race, let’s talk 5Ks.

In last month’s Runner’s World, Lauren Fleshman outlines “why the 5K is freaking awesome.” She makes some excellent points; compared to marathons, they are cheap, easy to get to, cause less chafing, retain more toenails, and while they are not quite quick and painless, the painful part is quick.

But here’s the problem with 5Ks: I hate them.

I don’t mean I hate them like I hate kale, mushrooms, and kale-smothered mushrooms. I will run them (I will not eat the aforementioned dish), although not often, and usually in the off-season or beginning of the season, calling them “just for fun.” Fun shmun.

There are a number of reasons I don’t like them: they are tempo-run-esque in their requirement to go relatively fast for a relatively long time, they don’t require a marathon-like commitment (so I’m able to run them when I’m out of shape, but then inevitably berate myself when I run poorly), and they pretty much suck from the gun to the finish line.

But, truthfully, the reason I don’t like them might be an egotistical one: I’m just not good at them—the same reason I don’t particularly like playing softball or anything that involves hand-eye coordination. I start well, at what seems to be a pace I should hold given my longer distance PRs, but slow in the second mile, and completely fall apart in the third. In the end, I always surprise myself with a big kick, which actually annoys me and makes me wish I could spread out my effort more evenly in the final mile. Which brings us back to last week’s Firecracker 5K.

The mile markers were a bit off, which caused me a great deal of mid-race panic when I came through the first “mile” thirty seconds over pace. Am I really running that slowly? This *feels* fast. Wow, I must be crazy out of shape. But I couldn’t speed up, and my Garmin continued to tell me I was running under my goal pace, as it had for the entire first mile. Okay, so maybe that mile marker was wrong.

The second mile marker confirmed my suspicions, as I came through that “mile” thirty seconds under pace. Right, so we’re back on track. (The possibility remained that the second mile could have been much too short, but I didn’t dwell on that idea.) The race was salvaged; I was apparently running well. (Two miles at goal Army Ten Miler pace, check.) But right on cue, in the third mile, I unraveled. My Garmin no longer provided comfort; I was slowing, badly. At about 2.5 miles, I tried motivating myself by attempting to catch the closest woman, Lululemon Skirt, not far ahead. As I was unsuccessfully trying to gain on Lululemon Skirt, Pacers Chick—who had been swapping places with me for the entire race—passed me. Crap. C’mon, Teal, it’s not that much further, stop giving up. But my legs wouldn’t go...

...Until we made the final turn to the finish, when I summoned a kick and passed both Lululemon Skirt and Pacers Chick. I was way off my goal time (closer to the pace I ran for a half marathon only a few months ago, yikes), but the final kick renewed my spirits slightly. My legs had something left. I could have gone faster. But then my spirits sank again: I should have run the third mile faster. Why can’t I run these things well?

It all seems mental; I just can’t wrap my marathon mind around the brevity of a 5K. Also, I’m out of shape. But the best argument Fleshman makes about 5Ks is this: if one goes poorly, you can run another a week later.

So—just like two years ago—I’ll run the Twilighter 5K in a few weeks. I may hate it, but it will be over quickly, and my toenails should remain intact. For now.

Dream big,
Teal

Plan of Attack

The only way to get over a bad race is to move on to a new one. After allowing myself a few too many days off, a few too many chocolate bars, and a few too many pouts about Boston, I had to decide what’s next. I needed the kind of race that would give me the best odds of running well: a fast and flat course, good competition, and ideal weather. Of course, when choosing a marathon there are other “life factors” as well—things that have nothing to do with running—friends’ weddings, travel logistics, my desire to spend all of December eating Christmas cookies.

With these factors in mind, it came down to either Chicago or the California International Marathon (CIM). Both are fast (CIM is actually net downhill, and not in the paradoxical way Boston is), both will have plenty of runners around my pace, both avoid any major life events (although CIM, in early December, cuts an entire week off my Christmas cookie enterprise). Chicago, of course, can be cruelly hot. CIM is a little harder logistically: it’s in Sacramento, which is not exactly the easiest place to get to. It’s also later in the season than usual, meaning a shorter turn around for a spring race and a much longer buildup, which can be an overindulgence that leads to burnout.

In the end, CIM won, based entirely on weather probabilities. But I have to be careful; with the race still six months away, I can’t start training yet. Instead I plan on spending some time *not* marathon training. I don’t mean sleeping in and eating cupcakes (that is what the post-marathon slouch weeks are for), I mean concentrating on weaknesses and things that usually get put aside when long runs and high mileage take over. My plan is to spend the summer keeping my mileage low while focusing on shorter races (5ks, egad!), cross training (back to the much maligned bike, ugh), strength training and flexibility (Namaste).

I'm planning to work on flexibility to get back to my
more gymnastic roots. As of now I can barely touch my toes.

But after I mentally agreed to this strategy—and used it to further justify that CIM was the best choice (I’ll get some speed back! I’ll be stronger and fitter when marathon training begins!)—I continued to mostly sleep in and eat those cupcakes. I planned out the rest of the races leading up to CIM, which includes the Army Ten Miler. On the entry form, I had to fill in my expected finish time. I wanted to write 60, because that’s what I want to run, gosh darn it. But even typing that ambitious (completely outlandish?) pace gave me pause. 

Really, Teal? 60? Can you run two miles at that pace right now? 

Probably not, but I’m going to use all this time to get stronger and faster… Right?? 

I suppose I should probably start…

And with that, my competitive pilot light reignited. It's time to run some shorter races, get a strength routine going, and learn to do Sun Salutations. Up first is the Firecracker 5k this Friday, which may serve as another reality check to get that flame burning a little brighter. I have almost two months before serious CIM training starts, hopefully I can get stronger, leaner, faster. And then the real fun will begin.

Dream big,

Teal

Race Report: Boston 2014

This year’s Boston Marathon was about redemption. After the horrors of last year, the runners and spectators were back to honor the victims, salute the heroes, and own the finish line.

On a smaller, much less important scale, it was an opportunity for personal redemption. Last year’s race didn’t go well for me, but that was the least important thing in the aftermath of the day’s events. I thought I would have an opportunity to make up for my lackluster results that fall, but dealt with an injury instead. I wanted 2014 to make up for the entirety of 2013: everything would go smoothly and safely and PRs would abound. Including mine.

Because of the injury, the preparation for this year’s race was shorter than usual. Around the time I normally would be ramping up to marathon mileage, I was still getting used to just running again. I adjusted my expectations for the build up: the training block would be a few weeks shorter, my peak mileage would be a little lower, but if everything went well, maybe—just maybe—I wouldn't have to lower my expectations for the race. All the major workouts were still there. And as I began checking them off, it seemed like everything was coming together. My long runs were faster than ever, even without consciously pushing the pace. I hit quicker paces in my marathon pace runs, and, importantly, I managed to finish the last one, which had been a discouraging disaster last year. With two weeks to go, I nabbed a mile PR in my favorite pre-race track workout.

Of course, it wasn’t all blue skies and tailwinds. There are always bad days. (Remember all that snow?) I continued to struggle with tempo runs and my half marathon tune-up race was not what I had hoped for. During the tenuous taper weeks, my hip unexpectedly tightened.

But I managed to brush off all of these negatives. I’ve never been good at tempo runs; why should that hold me back more this year than any other? The half marathon was a PR, despite being by a much smaller margin than I had wanted. And I became incredibly thankful the taper started when it did. If I had piled on just a little bit more, my hip might have staged a full-blown revolt. I seemed to have managed it just right, riding the perfect, fragile line between over-training and under-training.

And so, in the final weeks before Boston, my confidence grew. The training was better than ever. I felt far and away much better than last year (when workouts seemed to be falling apart and I was plagued with insomnia). The weather looked ideal, and I didn’t even stress about it with the same vigor as previous years. The tightness in my hip was my only worry (what would 26 miles do to it?) but ice and prayers did their job. I felt confident this was going to be a great year. Family and friends shared my optimism. (Or maybe they always express their confidence and I typically brush it off with a mix of pessimistic doubt and anxious terror. This year I trusted them.)

Tatted up and ready to go.

Marathon morning arrived. As I was waiting around in the starting corral, an official nearby marveled at the gorgeous day, before a couple runners cut him off. “Too hot for running,” they snapped back.

Their comment snapped me to attention. It was getting a little warm for marathoning. A perfect day for spectators (and don’t we owe it to them?), not a cloud in the clear blue sky. But before the 10 am start, I had already stripped off all my sweats and was perfectly comfortable in skimpy shorts and a tank top, which is not okay for the beginning of a marathon. (On the best weather days, you are cold at the start, wishing you could keep your sweats on.) Still, I didn’t dwell on it. I was still confident it would be a perfect day. No one else seemed to be complaining about the weather. This wasn’t Chicago Marathon hot.

The gun sounded, cheers erupted, and we were off. K and I planned to stick together for as long as possible, slowly inching our way through the massive crowds, down the first drop of the course, and onwards to Boston.

As usual, the first few miles felt fine. A hair fast here or there, but nothing majorly off pace. My hip seemed fine, the crowds and signage were better than ever. I saw my family in Framingham (10k) and was all smiles. Still side-by-side with K, we were right on target.

Side-by-side in Framingham.

Around mile 9 or 10, I fell slightly back from K. The negative thoughts started creeping in despite my actively trying to bat them back. I was a little warm, and I noticed signs for sponges to wipe off your face and neck. But each time I came to a sponge station, they were all gone. There were more than thirty thousand people behind me, how had they run out already? They must have been for the elites. Damn those elites and their spoiled faces and necks. I dumped water on my head instead, but the relief was barely temporary.

I hit halfway thirty seconds over my target pace of sub-2:48. Despite slowing down, I wasn’t too far off. I just needed to get back in a consistent rhythm. But I struggled to do so and by mile 15 the slowing down turned drastic. I was completely falling apart. It dawned on me—shockingly and awfully—this was a mile-for-mile rerun of last year. I had run well through the half, and now I was coming to pieces. And the hills hadn’t started.

If I was already coming undone, there was no hope to recover while heading upward. Once the hills started, I would have them to blame for my demise. But I couldn’t figure out why I was already sapped. I could feel the makings of some gnarly blisters on my feet, but despite the sheer disgust and inability to wear shoes they would later cause, they weren’t slowing me down. My hip felt a bit tight at times, but nothing near full-blown injury levels. It possibly even felt better than during the taper. The course hadn’t yet gotten hard and the most injured parts of my body weren’t actively impeding me, what was?

Had I gone out too fast like last year? Going into the race I had felt sure I could handle the pace. More than anything, my marathon pace runs told me that. Last year I did not have those workouts to back up my pace goals but stubbornly went after them anyway. It backfired. Was I stubbornly clinging to overly optimistic goals again?

Falling apart in the same place, I began berating myself. I did not have a 2:48 in me today, again. Will I ever? I just kept thinking, “This is really hard.” (Better vocabulary was lost on me; this was just too damn hard.) Had I lost some toughness? Shouldn’t last year’s events, my poor race, and my injury make me tougher? I hadn’t run a good marathon in two years, would I ever again?

My 2:48 was out the window, quickly followed by my plan B of sub-2:50. Even hopes of a PR soon became out of the question. As I ran up the hills, doubting everything I thought about my running ability, losing any glimmer of a way to salvage the day, I wanted to drop out. This was a slow exhausting march to a disappointing finish. Make it end.

Two things kept me going. One was the fact that this was Boston 2014. The president had told us, “We finish the race.” Dammit Obama, I’ll finish the @#%$ing race. I wanted to run down Boylston, I wanted to hear those cheers. I wanted to show thanks to all the spectators, volunteers, and the city of Boston for supporting us, this year and every single year. I would finish.

The second reason was much less globally impactful, more selfish, and honestly pretty silly. I wanted a water bottle. A full one. Around mile 19, my hands started tingling and I realized I was really thirsty. I can’t ever remember a time I was so thirsty in a race. (The 80 degree 2010 Chicago is a contender, but I have effectively repressed that memory.) I usually have to force myself to drink, taking Gatorade at every other water stop. This time I was begging for a new water stop as soon as I was through the last one. I even missed some: assuming they would continue to be on both sides of the road, as they were for most of the race, I had tried to go to the less popular left-side stop, only to realize—twice!—there wasn’t one there. Those two errors seemed like the biggest mistakes of my life. I didn’t drop out because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t have anything to drink. If I made it to the finish, they would give me a whole glorious bottle, and I would chug that thing.

And so I kept running, counting down to the water stops, jogging along at my everyday pace, unable to do anything about it. I was in danger of not running sub-three, which seemed completely ridiculous given my hopes for the day. Still, I wasn’t actively able to pick it up.

Mile 22. I run for water.

With a mile to go, I knew I would at least run sub-3, but it offered no comfort. As I turned onto Boylston, the crowd roaring, I was glad I had listened to the president’s orders. I did my best to cherish the moment, soaking in the redemptive spirit of this year’s race. I would soon hear that Meb had sprinted down this same stretch in first place, the first American to win Boston in my lifetime, a wonderfully appropriate way to top off a celebratory day in a city that deserved it.

But as for me, I had no sprint, no way to will my legs to a good finish in front of a great crowd. My personal redemption would not come today.

As soon as I finished, the water bottle search began. But first, they gave me a medal, and then the space blanket, and I had to keep limping along down the road. I thought about asking a medical person for water, but realized quickly that medical people had more serious things to tend to. Finally—finally!—I was given a water bottle. I feebly asked for another, and the wonderfully kind volunteer gave it to me. Pressing my luck, I took yet another and chugged all three.

Still not completely sated but feeling like I had completed my mission, I limped through the rest of the lines of food to the family meeting area where I met my husband and family. I didn’t have to explain my tears—they knew and understood my disappointment completely. They too thought I was ready for something big.

Looking back on the day—with my scientist’s analytical eyes—the most plausible explanation for my meltdown seems to be dehydration. The thirst of the later miles indicates that; once you feel that thirsty, it’s too late. The day had been a bit warmer than I anticipated or was ready for, and the combination of three hours of relentless sun sapped me (as well as burned me). Others seemed to have a similar story; they went out well but then fell apart, inexplicably, just past halfway.

But as I offered this explanation, some have brushed it off. There are a lot of variables in a marathon, and you can’t knock it out of the park every time. Sometimes you have a bad day, for no logical or scientific reason. You have to accept that you cannot PR every time. (I had PRed 9 of 10 times, but now regrettably have to add another blemish to that record.) I refuse to fully accept the “just a bad day” explanation. Yes, I know deep down that unexplained bad days happen. But it’s hard to think that way. When training for a marathon you have to believe hard work earns you a way to defy bad luck. You have to think it will be a “knock it out of the park” day. Which makes it very hard to accept when it is not.

For two grueling hours during the race, my thoughts had been a continuous cycle of: “This is really hard. I want water. Will I ever be able to run the times I want?” (And more nonsense about the water.) After I finally had my fill of water, hours and days later, the other two thoughts persisted, nagging me. They cannot be satiated.

This is really hard.

Will I ever?

I know that I will, or that I will at least try, because I'm a marathoner, and I’m stubborn, and that's what stubborn marathoners do. But crap, it's going to be really damn hard. 

Dream big (even in the face of discouragement),

Teal 

Science Friday: Vitamin C

In these last days before spring marathons, runners everywhere are obsessing over possible scenarios that could undermine all their training at the last second. They’ve morphed from running junkies to tapering balls of anxiety, stressing about weather predictions, analyzing the carbohydrate content of their food, and constantly washing their hands. This is not the time to come down with something.

I didn’t take enough precautions before this year’s Rock and Roll Half-Marathon. The week of the race my nose started running, my throat itched, my eyes watered. I was sick. In last minute desperation, I overloaded on anything with vitamin C. I drank orange juice, ate red pepper, snacked on strawberries. (Orange juice has a lot of vitamin C, but oranges themselves are not the only source of vitamin C, nor are they the best one.) Unfortunately, I wasn’t cured before the race. Despite a persistent belief that vitamin C can cure a cold, my personal case study (n=1) would suggest otherwise. But what does the real research say? Should tapering marathoners be vitamin C loading?

There are two key words in that question: marathoners and loading.

First, the marathoners. Last year, a meta-analysis (a review of previous studies) examined the effect of vitamin C on frequency, duration, and severity of the common cold. For the general population, it seems that vitamin C actually doesn’t help prevent a cold, but it can help shorten it or make it less unbearable. (This was true for people who took vitamin C regularly; taking a dose of vitamin C once the cold started didn’t help much, which may explain my trouble trying to load up once I was already sick.)

But the results were slightly different when they looked at studies of people under “heavy acute physical stress.” These studies looked at skiers, soldiers training in the subarctic conditions of northern Canada, and—relevant to this blog—ultramarathoners (participants who ran the Comrades Marathon in South Africa, a 56 mile race). In these groups, vitamin C supplementation halved the risk of coming down with a cold. It should be noted that for the ultramarathon group, researchers only analyzed the likelihood of getting a cold in the two weeks following the race. The vitamin C likely helped because races like marathons deplete our immune system, making us more likely to come down with a cold. The researchers didn’t look at prevention of colds during training or before the race, but assuming hard training (especially the last few monster weeks before tapering) could also deplete the immune system, then marathoners especially could benefit from being extra vigilant about vitamin C.

Which brings me to part 2: Should we load up?

Here the answer is: not so fast. Vitamin C is an antioxidant (generally a good thing), but excessive amounts may actually be harmful and have a negative effect on training and performance. The thinking here is that exercise produces reactive oxygen species. (Caused by the break down of oxygen, reactive oxygen species build up when cells are stressed, and are generally a bad thing.) These “bad” species may actually help induce training adaptations by forcing the muscles to make their own antioxidants and increase mitochondrial growth. In one study, researchers looked specifically at female runners. (Because of estrogen, there may be gender differences in regards to vitamin C effects.) The runners were given either vitamin C (1000 mg daily, 10 times the recommended amount and the equivalent of 12 oranges or 1 Naked Power-C Machine bottle) or placebo during three weeks of training, and then tested twice: a timed 5k and a treadmill test where the speed and incline increased until exhaustion. Vitamin C seemed to decrease the speeds they could hit in practice (during training), but didn’t seem to significantly help or harm the speeds on “race” day (for the 5k and the treadmill test). (It seems possible that not being able to go as fast in training would eventually catch up to you on race day; I wonder if the study was too short to investigate that.) The researchers also measured markers of oxidative stress (those bad species) and found they were higher when the runners were taking vitamin C. The differences here were small, but it suggests a level of caution. 

Just to add another degree of confusion to this debate, vitamin C is water soluble, which is a fancy way of saying that if you take too much, you will pee out the excess. However, overdoses—although rare—can happen and as the above study suggests, excess isn’t entirely harmless.

So the lesson is that regular vitamin C could possibly prevent a cold when your body is depleted (i.e. before you start the taper). Too much vitamin C might prevent training adaptations, so it may be best not to go overboard with supplements and Naked drinks and just adhere to the old standard of Moms everywhere: eat your fruits and veggies.

And keep washing your hands.

Dream big and stay healthy,

Teal

My Other Marathon

In between my morning runs and evening carbo-loading sessions, I am a scientist. Or, at least, trying to be one. I have spent the last five years working towards a PhD, the two years before that working towards getting into a PhD program, my undergraduate years working towards getting a job that would get me into a PhD program... All the way back to elementary school adventures with exploding volcanoes, science fairs, and cakes decorated to look like animal cells. (The mitochondria were delicious.)

My first science fair. Told you I was a nerd.

People tell you that a PhD program is so hard, that it really takes something out of you, demoralizes you, makes you dig deep into reserves you didn't know you had. 

I thought, whatever, I'm a marathoner. I can do this. 

But they were right. 

Years of failed experiments. Committee meetings where the end seemed further and further away. Countless days that ended in tears. 

I wanted to give up and quit. Why am I doing this to myself? At one point my dad tried to put an end to my complaining, reminding me that no matter what, "You will never give up now." The defeated voice in my head silently responded, "Oh yea, watch me." I was so close. But no one--husband, family, friends, teammates--would let me.

So I kept going. 

Up the hill. Exhausted and demoralized 20 miles in. Aching to drop out, sit down on the curb and end the misery. 

Slowly milestones ticked off and things came together. This past January, my committee gave me permission to set a defense date. The end was in sight. And yet, there was still so much to do: write up five years of results, present the data in front of the department, friends, and family, and respond to an onslaught of questions in such a way that would convince people I deserve those extra three letters at the end of my name.

"Good for you! You've spent six months training for a marathon! Now you just have to run 26.2 miles, in a row, and you can really celebrate."

"Congratulations! You qualified for Boston! Now run 21 miles, climbing three hills, and then take on Heartbreak. Oh yea, and then 5 more miles."

The end is near, but no celebrations yet.

As the morning of the defense neared, I took all pre-race precautions. I tried to get my sleep, eat well, and eliminate any possible last minute mishaps. When the day came there was nothing else I could do. Time to pray for a favorable tailwind and no mid-race nausea.

The defense was terrible and awful. Like the final miles of any marathon, as soon as it got tough, I ached and mentally pleaded for it to end. And yes, there were moments when I wanted to throw up.

But by midday, it was over. I had done it. It is taking a while to set in, that this Huge Life Moment I ruminated about almost constantly for more than 5 years has finally come and I can stop stressing about it. There were so many moments when I thought I might not make it. But no, I did not DNF. I finished.

Nearly two decades later, explaining something
slightly more complicated on a slightly bigger scale.

And now for the sappy part, to justify a post complaining about graduate school on a blog dedicated to running:

Everything worth doing has a 20-miles-in-and-I-want-to-drop-out-and-curl-up-in-the-fetal-position Moment. (Or many moments, because it doesn't magically get easier at mile 21.) Moments of doubt, of panic, of hating your previous self for signing up for this torture. Find the person/people that will push you, that will hold you up when you want to sit down/pass out/give up. Keep going. Keep fighting. Up the hill and over the other side. Through the finish line. You'll get there.

And then you can really celebrate.

Dream big, 

Teal, PhD

Race Report: Rock and Roll USA Half-Marathon 2014

Last spring, before Boston, I posted a graph of the ups and downs of training and racing. The training months show some gentle hills and valleys, marking good weeks of workouts that are sometimes followed by bad. But this year, I feel like the training part of the graph looks more like a EKG, quickly plunging from the highest highs to the lowest lows and back again.

A particularly bad workout (like the treadmill tempo disaster) has been followed by an amazing workout, and the cycle repeats. Some days I feel great—I am coming back better than ever!—some days I think I will never run fast again, my hip will break, and I’ll be doomed to become a biker, a particularly cruel twist of fate. It’s a roller coaster of paranoia.

Tempo runs are still the main soul crusher. With the half coming up, how could I honestly expect to run 13.1 miles faster than I run for a 5 mile tempo? But easy long runs were faster, marathon pace runs had gone pretty well, and I had finally made it back on the track with no problems. It seemed my up and down graph was beginning to average out on the side of optimism.

Then a few days before the half, I got a cold. It wasn’t the worst cold ever, but I felt completely drained. I tried my best to overdose on vitamin C and sleep, but the race was fast approaching and the cold was not relenting. It sapped my already shaky confidence.

When I was hurt and dreaming of better, bike-free days, I wasn’t dreaming of just running again—although of course that was part of it—I was dreaming of running again, faster. Unfortunately, patience is not one of my virtues. My preseason goal for the half was to nab a big PR, en route to a bigger PR at Boston. Anything less would be a disappointment. Despite terrible tempos and a cruel cold, I had to try.

Race morning dawned with perfect weather and an inordinate amount of pre-race nose-blowing. The first few miles my legs felt dead, heavy. This was going to be tough. Do I slow down and give up on my pace immediately? Or do I push, and maybe risk dropping out? I’ve never dropped out. It was way too early to think this way. I reminded myself: don’t judge a run by its first (or, in this case, second or third) mile.

Through Rock Creek (miles 4-6) I was feeling a bit better, staying pretty close to 6:10 pace, just trying to relax before the Hill. I had read over my splits from last year, reminding myself that I would slow down drastically in the hilly mile, but not to freak out. I recovered last year; I would do it again. The Hill mile’s split was a bit faster this time, keeping with my higher hopes.

The next few rolling miles tend to be my favorite of the race. The Hill is over, some downhills are certainly welcome, and in the past I’ve used the smaller uphills to catch girls ahead of me. But there was no one in sight this year. The real trouble was people kept saying “Good job ladies” and so I was sure some other girl was on my tail, ready to strike. No lady, these are my miles to strike. I had no idea how close she was, all I could go off was the people cheering for us together, in one breath. At one point, some guys hanging out of their porch seemed to be cheering for this other girl, quickly retracting it as I ran by, “No, not you.” Alright cool, so the girl behind me is hotter—but whatever, this is a race not a runway, and I’m beating her. Still, she would not be dropped.

A few people were telling me my place among women—some said 4th, others said 3rd. (Interestingly, I didn’t hear anyone mention Mystery Hot Girl's place.) I did not trust that I could be 3rd; I had seen some girl blow past me in mile 2 and thought to myself, wow there’s a lot of fast women this year. K was also killing it up ahead. Surely there must be at least one more. I figured some of the counters had simply missed one of these speedsters as they flashed by.

My thoughts of dropping out had faded after the first few miles, but my nose was presenting an issue. By mile 9, it was raw and felt like it was bleeding. I ignored it (Who needs a nose to run? Oh right, breathing), but I was struggling at water stops. I craved Gatorade when they only had water, and my stomach didn’t seem ready to cooperate at the stops when Gatorade was offered. I was out of sync. Finally, I settled for water, but—like a complete amateur—I momentarily forgot how to drink out of paper cups while racing and splashed the water all over my face and up my—already throbbing—nose. I hadn’t raced in 11 months, I had apparently forgotten how.

Despite my belief that I love these miles and was actively trying to shake off Mystery Hot Girl, I was also pouring water all over myself and failing to pick up the pace as I had hoped. I recalculated the split I would need at mile 10 to match my PR, an average of 6:15 pace. I relented that today was not a day I would crush my PR but I hoped at least to be beating it. Instead I hit the split dead on. Crap, I’m flirting with not PR-ing at all. I tried picking it up in miles 11 and 12 but instead they were among the slowest of the day. Finally, I hit the last mile and pushed, not exactly knowing where the finish line was (it moved from last year), and trying desperately to ward off Mystery Hot Girl, who appeared to have dropped as people seemed to cheer for me alone. As I saw the clock, I knew I had a slight PR, but much less than what I had expected.

The redemption of the day came after I crossed the line and was told I finished in 3rd. Apparently one of the women ahead of me was running the full, and—at least for part of it—leading all the marathon men as well. (A Romanian Olympian, she easily won the women’s full and finished 6th overall.) The remaining mystery is that Mystery Hot Girl did not exist. I checked the results later and verified with my Dad, who had followed along online; I was almost a minute ahead of the next girl from the Hill on. I have no idea who those people cheered for, or if it’s perhaps easier to say, “Good job ladies” than “Good job lady.” At least the strategy worked and pushed me in the latter miles. Looking back, I feel a little like I was being chased by my shadow the entire way—a shadow of a past self, perhaps. One I was able to beat by 20 seconds.

Waiting for the awards ceremony.
Third place (and 2nd for K) warrants champagne in the VIP tent.

The old adage is that you can’t be upset with a PR: you have run faster than ever before. Friends and teammates reminded me of this all day long, as I annoyingly grumbled anyway. I was disappointed at last year’s Boston and now I worry I’m in basically the same shape, the same place, and will finish with the same disappointment. But I know—somehow, deep down in my stronger legs and fully functioning hips—that I’m not. This half didn’t prove that to anyone, least of all me. But I suspect last year I peaked too early. This year I plan to peak—cold free—on April 21st.

Dream big,

Teal

Spoiled: A Treatise on Dreadful Treadmills

(Note: I wrote this about a week and a half ago, but things came up, and I never uploaded it. Now the ice and snow have melted, and I’ve had more runs and workouts to change my mind a bit, but I’m posting this very belated entry for the sake of accurately portraying my thoughts while training for a marathon/overcoming an injury.)

Treadmills really suck.

I forgot that when I started running again, I was so thrilled to not be biking. Sure, I wasn’t actually physically moving forward and I was committed to staring at gym walls and moronic TV, but at least I was running.

But then I went for a few more jaunts outside and quickly was spoiled. The hatred for the treadmill came back as if I had never missed it. I can manage an easy run on it, although I would certainly prefer not to. Too far and I’m bored and annoyed I’m indoors. Too hard and I’m hating life.

With snow and ice covering all the trails and tracks, though, I was going to have to suffer through a tempo run, of all horribly terrible things, on the treadmill. As soon as the snow started falling I debated how to avoid it. Maybe the track would be clear in time? Maybe there was somewhere with less ice? But tempo day came and nothing had melted. I knew attempting a hard workout on the treadmill was signing up for torture, but there seemed to be no alternative.

I tried to glean some inspiration from past running logs and looked over my notes from 2010’s Snowpacalpse. I know that I attempted a treadmill tempo at least once, because the aftermath is etched in my mind: glad the horrible ordeal was over, I headed into the locker room, purple-faced and sweating more than should be humanly possible in the middle of winter. In the row of lockers next to me, two girls were discussing some insane woman on one of the treadmills, saying something to the effect that this woman should have eased up or not tried so hard or run at a less killing-herself pace, as if it was supremely uncool to be working out in a gym.

Was the problem that these gym-going girls had never seen someone really hammering a workout? For our toughest efforts, we runners confine ourselves to tracks and roads, and there’s a simple reason for that:

Treadmills really suck.

But my notes corrected my memory. In fact I did two treadmill tempos: one appears to have actually been a success, but the other one was, predictably, a disaster. I had to stop and take a break, and wrote a stream of discouraging thoughts in my log afterwards. (Ironically, I think the locker room girls made fun of my successful one.)

I tried to look at the positive: I had been successful before (okay, 1 for 2), and the Snowpacalpse workout—while slower than my current pace—was actually longer. Surely I could manage just a bit faster for less time, four years later? As usual, Husband had some encouraging advice as well, reminding me that whatever happens would have to go back in the log. Just like the first of the Snowpacalpse workouts, if I did well I would have proof to convince future me that it was possible, in addition to the proof that training was going well and my speed was coming back. If I did well. 

Except I couldn’t. Despite Eminem’s best efforts, I had to take a break just over halfway through. I took a little rest and then tried to finish, but I could only do a mile before needing another rest.  Completely discouraged, I debated stopping completely, giving up not only on the tempo part, but also the total mileage for the day.

I had thought that one thing the injury couldn’t take from me (and would possibly give back) was toughness, determination earned from weeks on the bike, miserable days missing running, hopes for an entire season abandoned. You come back from injury with a hardness that allows you to dig deeper into reserves you didn’t have before. Despite my muscles and lungs being out of shape, my mind was rock solid.

Except it wasn’t. That’s what disappointed me the most about the workout. Why do treadmills suck? With no mandatory hills and no wind resistance, they are actually easier on your legs and lungs. The tough part is completely in your head. (Although I wonder about the lack of running by effort, and just locking into a consistent pace. On outdoor runs you might slow down a bit in bad patches and speed up in good patches, but still average the same.) But my head wasn’t having it. This time’s log entry contains another stream of pessimism and defeat.

It turns out toughness is a muscle as well, and it needs to be worked and whipped back into shape. I did at least make it through the total distance, my only victory for the day. I guess my mind wasn’t yet quite ready for this particular beast of a challenge.

I just hope the snow melts soon* so I can work on my toughness somewhere else.

Dream big,

Teal 

(*And it has. Stay tuned for updated thoughts from runs that are both done outdoors and require less than seven layers of clothing.)