Race Report: Crystal City Twilighter 5k

Saturday night was my second attempt at the 5k in three weeks. I hoped it would be a repeat of two years ago: disappointed by a less than stellar Firecracker 5K, I came back for revenge and—bolstered by the presence of my teammates—set a PR on the darkening Crystal City streets.

Given how slow my 5k PR is compared to my longer distance PRs, it shouldn’t be difficult to break. I’m not in prime shape now, but my PR was set at this same midsummer, off-peak race. I wasn’t in prime shape then either, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse. Coach had said a 5:55 first mile would feel comfortable. I wasn’t quite confident that comfortable would be the appropriate adjective, but it sounded reasonable and was PR pace, so I was game.

Warming up with the GRC ladies.

I hit the one mile marker at exactly 5:55, and it did feel comfortable. Running a second mile at 5:55 would certainly not be as easy (or comfortable), but I felt good and I had teammates both at my side and just ahead to gage off of. As we hit the turn-around, I felt like I could be slowing, but I seemed to be improving, or at least maintaining, my place in the field. I figured I was running close to 6:00 mile pace, which would still be good enough for a PR. But as I passed the two mile marker, I realized I had slowed much more than that. Crap, crap, crap. I had to get it back in the last mile. I couldn’t pull a Classic Teal and give up. And it didn’t seem like I was. The effort felt different than the Firecracker race; I didn’t feel like I was unraveling, it felt like a PR effort. Maybe I hadn’t reclaimed 5:55 pace, but I was churning along, not throwing in the towel. K caught up to me, and having her there gave me a needed push.

I didn’t have a great sense of where the finish line was (the course was new), but I thought I could identify one of the intersections close enough to start pushing. The problem was I was mistaken, started picking it up, and realized too late we had not yet passed the aforementioned intersection. Oh well, at least I tricked myself into running faster for longer. Like last time, I struggled to see the finish line in the dark until we were pretty close. I kicked as best as possible, but had no clue what the time was; the clock was blinking nonsensical numbers. I didn’t know how I’d done until I had walked away, caught my breath, and finally peaked at my watch.

18:56. What? Five seconds slower than my PR. I was pissed. The effort felt like I earned a better time than that. I knew that I had slowed in the second mile but it didn’t dawn on me that instead of making up for it, I had actually continued to slip.

This morning I looked up the official results, which shows me six seconds slower than my watch time. (It also shows equivalent gun and chip times, even though I started a couple seconds back.) I thought I finished closer to K, but apparently not. Officially I didn’t even break 19 minutes. This just keeps getting worse and worse. 

Officially or not, my time was slower than 2012 when I had just joined the team. Have I not improved in two years? (Actually—although I currently feel like wallowing in this recent failure—the reality is I have improved at every distance except the 5k. Sadly, the only other distance where my improvement was almost negligible was the marathon, which, of course, is the one that matters most to me.)

The truth is I don’t really care about 5ks. I care about what this means for my other races and bigger goals. To hit my September goal, I need to run the same pace as Saturday for 13.1 miles—i.e. ten miles further. To hit my October goal, I need to run faster for longer (10 miles). To hit my December goal, I need the confidence gained from nailing the other two. I know it is the beginning of the season and real training hasn’t begun, but is the real training enough to give me an extra 10 miles at that pace? Enough to get me to go ten miles at a pace I can currently (maybe) hold for only two?

Let’s hope so.

Dream big (even when results tell you otherwise),

Teal

Science Friday: Oxidative Stress is Hot Stuff

In last week’s post, I discussed hot weather training and how its benefits persist even in cold weather; since your body has to work harder in the heat, you are forcing it to toughen up. This translates to improvements that last even when the stimulus is gone. (The same way training at altitude pays off at sea level.)

This week, I came across a study that discusses one of the ways this may occur, i.e. one of the ways heat forces lasting improvements. Here, subjects biked for an hour in different temperatures: 45° (cold), 68° (room temperature), or 91° (called “warm,” but this warm-weather wuss would call that “hot”). Afterwards, the subjects were kept in their temperature-controlled rooms for three hours. (It’s unclear what they were doing for those three hours. They were given dry clothes, something to drink, and got to lay down, which sounds like a perfect recipe for a post-workout nap, but they were periodically poked and prodded by the researchers, so maybe not.) Blood samples obtained over the three hours were examined for markers of oxidative stress. When oxygen is broken down by mitochondria to produce energy (as happens normally and to an increased extent during exercise), reactive oxygen species are also produced in the process. Oxidative stress occurs with the overproduction of these species, which are thought to damage DNA and accelerate aging and disease. (This is why people tout antioxidants, which sop up these species.) In the study, the subjects that exercised and recovered in the warm room had the highest levels of oxidative stress.

But oxidative stress is not necessarily a bad thing. Like weight lifting or running, it causes a stress to your muscles that forces them to rebuild stronger. In this case, oxidative stress encourages cells to make their own antioxidants and increase mitochondria, which make all that wonderful energy. This increase in oxidative stress in the heat may be one of the explanations for the benefits discussed last week. Just like heat demands us to deal with less blood pumping to our muscles, it also forces us to deal with reactive oxygen species. The muscles clean up the mess and patch us back up, better than ever.

I wished the experiment had also examined differences between exercising and recovering in the heat. (A way to test this would have involved everyone first exercising in the heat, followed by half the subjects recovering at room temperature and the other half recovering in a hot room.) Recently, there have been warnings against going overboard on recovery aids. In some regards, the soreness, inflammation, and—in this case—oxidative species caused by a run are a good thing. Ice baths, ibuprofen, or perhaps even cooling off in a comfortable room may cut your body too much slack. The researchers didn’t test that here, but it’s an interesting idea.

Antioxidant supplements have come under fire recently for a similar reason. As I described in a post about vitamin C, taking antioxidant supplements (which contain a much higher dose than found naturally in fruits and vegetables) may block our bodies’ adaptations to exercise. (An interesting take on why fruits and vegetables are better than synthesized pills is here.) Again, it’s a case of overdosing on recovery; trying to force your body to bounce back, when the best improvements are made by letting your body recover naturally, with whole foods, time, and perhaps even a post-run nap in a warm spot.

Dream big,
Teal

Science Friday: Embrace the Heat

It’s mid-July. It’s hot. It’s humid. It’s horrible.

Running in the heat is miserable, as I’ve experienced in a few races and every time summer rolls around. As you heat up, your heart starts beating faster to pump more blood to the skin, where the heat can be released. Sweat rate increases to help cool the skin through evaporation. (The reason humidity is such a nuisance is that the air is so saturated with moisture, the moisture on your skin doesn’t have anywhere to go and the cooling effect of sweat is lost.) Running performance plummets because your heart is working harder than usual, but the oxygen-rich blood is being shipped to the skin, not to your muscles. In addition, sweating can lead to dehydration and electrolyte loss.

Every summer we are reminded what to do to exercise safely: run in the shade, early in the morning, in technical clothes (Dri-fit, etc.); drink water and/or electrolyte beverages before, after, and possibly during runs; and accept slower times or even a workout cut short. We are comforted that after a few weeks (about two), things will get better. Our bodies will adapt by sweating sooner, more aggressively, and forfeiting less salt (yes, being super sweaty is a good thing). The heat won’t annihilate our workouts as much; we’ll be able to go faster with less effort and lower heart rates. We’ll be acclimated.

Yes, a couple weeks in the heat means it’s less terrible to be in the heat. But this news is not preventing me from daydreaming of moving to Antarctica. What does hot weather training have to offer, besides a pile of drenched clothes and a sports bra tan line?

A 2010 study by Santiago Lorenzo and colleagues details an unexpected reward. In the study, competitive cyclists were split into two groups. At the start, both groups endured a number of physiological tests in both cool (55°) and warm (100°) conditions. One group then spent ten sessions riding at an easy pace in a hot room (104°, aka too hot to try this at home) while the other group did the same workouts in a cool room (55°, aka ideal exercising weather). After the ten sessions, both groups were again tested in cool and warm conditions.

A summary of the results is shown in the graph below. As you’d expect, when tested in the heat (black bars) the experimental group that practiced in the heat improved across the board: increased VO2max (the maximal amount of oxygen that can be taken in and used), lactate threshold (the point above which lactate accumulates in the blood; approximately tempo run pace), Qcmax (the maximal cardiac output, how much blood the heart is pumping), and time trial performance. They were acclimated after the ten sessions. The control group that practiced in the cool room was not acclimated to the heat, and the group's scores hovered around zero; they didn’t improve much from the start to the end of the study. Not surprisingly, their time trial performance worsened in the heat.

What was surprising to the researchers were the results from the tests in the cool conditions (white bars). Even under these conditions, the group that practiced in the heat did much better compared to the group that practiced at ideal temperatures. Again, both physiological measures and performance improved in the heat-acclimated group while the cool-training group remained the same. Heat training led to improvements no matter the conditions.

As Steve Magness mentions in his new book The Science of Running, heat training is analogous to altitude training. The stresses our bodies have to deal with in the heat (less blood flow and oxygen to the muscles, similar to training at high altitude) force a number of adaptations, including increased blood volume. In the summer, you get an “altitude-like effect” without having to move to Flagstaff or Mammoth Lakes. (And it might even discourage dreams of Antarctica.) When the weather cools, your body will be stronger and tougher from its heat training.

So embrace the heat (safely). Come September, you might have a shiny new PR because of it.

Dream big and don’t sweat the sweating,

Teal

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