Jill's Running Away

Overprogrammed

2012-01-17T18:50:00.000-08:00

Just because I haven’t blogged since Poconos almost-half Ironman doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting on my tush gaining weight. Well, ok, I have been doing that, but only in addition to some other races.

It started off well. A week after Poconos I ran a 5k in which I got a 15-second personal record and third place in my age group. Then in November, I ran the Philly Marathon, a race in which I learned that it really sucks to run a full marathon when you did not train for a full marathon. First half = pure running joy; Second half = hoping poachers would declare open season on slow runners and put me out of my misery. In early December I ran the Hot Chocolate 15k at the National Harbor outside of DC. It was the most disastrously organized race I’ve ever done. The schwag was a nice cup of hot chocolate, some chocolate fondue, a cheap ill-fitting windbreaker and a truly nasty cold. Finally, just last week I ran the Disney Marathon. This was, by far, the most fun running event I’ve ever done, and I plan on going back for the Goofy challenge next year (half marathon on Saturday plus the full marathon on Sunday). I learned a word at Disney that will forever dramatically improve my running life: Biofreeze.

In any case, I’ve only been training a few hours a week since Poconos, and I’ve been eating as if I’m preparing for Ironman Kona. Besides eating, my time has been spent signing up for every single race I’ve ever heard of. My spring calendar (so far!) is absolutely ridiculous. It goes like this:

March 18: Shamrock ½ marathon
April 1: Cherry Blossom 10-miler
April 21: 5k for Clean Air
April 27: Out and Back Party Run (4 miles)
May 6: Broad Street Run 10-miler
May 26: Hammonton Sprint Triathlon
June 10: Eagleman Ironman 70.3 (wait list)
June 24: Philly Tri (olympic distance)

The only reason I don’t have my autumn schedule worked out yet is there are too many races on conflicting dates I want to sign up for.

By any standard, it’s too much. It’s too much time; it’s too much money; it’s too much injury risk. It’s nuts. As I was trying to work out my training schedule for this tangled mess, I had an epiphany. I’m self-medicating with races. I would rather blow my savings, my spare time and risk getting mangled than dwell on the very horrifying stressors in my life. Since there are worse methods to use to hide from life, I guess I’ll stick with my crazy race schedule, and even incorporate a bunch of over-the-top goals. For example:

1. I want my sub-2-hour half marathon this year, and I want it at Shamrock.
2. I want a sub-90-minute 10-miler (Cherry Blossom – this means you).
3. I want another PR in a 5k, preferably close to 25 minutes (it’s now at 25:45).
4. I really need to learn how to swim if I’m going to continue to be part of swimming competitions.
5. I have to stop being afraid of my bike.
6. I’ll stick with yoga and core work and weight training. Really, I mean it this time.
7. I want to lose enough weight so the people pictured in finish line race photos with me don’t have to hear “you weren’t any faster than THAT girl?!”

Insane? Absolutely. But not compared to what I'm already thinking about for 2013.

Extremely Over Long and Boring Half Ironman Race Report

2011-10-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

Well, Poconos 70.3 or, more accurately upper 60s something point something, is now in the history books, and I am a proud survivor. To say an experience is a roller coaster ride is a cliché, but, wow, does it ever apply to this one.

Way back in February when I signed up for this, I had two big concerns: getting through an open water swim without floaties and finding time to train. I figured I would just keep hitting the open water as much as possible until I got comfortable in it and I would wedge in the training time, just as I did for the Steamtown Marathon last year.

Sometime after I registered, I saw for the first time the elevation chart for the bike course. It looked just like a seismic readout for a megaquake, with one big hill near the end that stood out like a middle finger being waved at the riders. I am not a hill rider. I live in Philly, and the roads near me are flat. Also, climbers are light little wispy people, and I am extremely tall and more food-focused than most dogs I know. But I figured, like the swim, I would just keep practicing until I got comfortable.

And then, June happened. The diagnosis of Shelly’s metastatic recurrence was Earth-shattering, and it changed every priority I had. The idea of spending so much time satisfying my own personal glory in the face of what my family was going through just seemed far too self-indulgent. I stopped training, and coasted into Philly Tri, an Olympic distance event at the end of June, off the fumes of my previous work. It was at the Expo for that tri that I met the Team DetermiNation people, who showed me a path to make this race more meaningful than anything I have ever participated in. So, armed with a modified training plan, I trudged forward.

In the early part of the summer, I got in enough open-water swims that I began to feel comfortable. I would be the last person out of the water because I pretty much swim backwards, but I would not drown. The bike was a bigger problem. Every time I tried to get out for a long, hilly bike ride, there was either a storm threat or life obligation that got in the way. I had to skip three sprint triathlons I planned on doing in the later part of the summer because of weather issues. As race date neared, I felt unprepared to face 56 miles of Poconos hills.

The flip side of this was the overwhelming support from my friends and family. I’m not just talking about the donations to the American Cancer Society on behalf of my race goal, which totaled over $3,000, but also the messages expressing gratitude for raising the money, describing loved ones’ fights against cancer and talking about what a special person my sister is and sending thoughts and prayers her way. There is simply no way to express how much this support meant to me. Thinking of this kept me grounded.

It kept me grounded, that is, right up until the day before race day, when it struck me that I was really going to have to do this thing. The ironic thing leading up to race weekend was that, after all that worrying and training for the swim, it ended up being cancelled anyway because locally ridiculous rains caused the river to be unsafe. It is good that I learned how to swim, however, since Mother Nature seems intent on turning my basement into its own open-water spot. The event organizers decided the event would become a 69.1 duathlon instead of a 70.3 triathlon. After hearing tales of whole trees shooting down the Delaware, I was cool with that.

There was nothing, however, that was going to get me out of the bike. We got to the race Expo on Saturday in time for the noon athlete’s meeting. The speakers spent a lot of time telling us things like, “coming off the steep descent on this road, you go right into a turn that is greater than 90 degrees onto a narrow path, and there will probably be wet leaves on the ground.” They showed us tennis ball sized walnuts that would be on the ground, and spoke of bear sightings and deer crossings. This was not comforting.

And then we drove the bike course. By the end of that ride, I was so terrified I lost the ability to speak. There were hills that were so intense I don’t know how our car handled them. And there were lots and lots and lots of them. In fact, no part of the course was flat. To make matters worse, it rained all through Saturday night, ensuring that the course would be wet and covered in debris. It was also likely to rain on us while we were riding.

To put my fear in perspective, I was only able to put away about half of my dinner on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning, it took me two hours to force myself to eat half a bagel. I NEVER lose my appetite. I was reminded of my mortality at the first transition area, from which the race begins, when I looked around and saw the super human born athletes I was “competing” against. They all looked like they used to be Olympians. I looked like I should be ordering a hoagie. We lined up in the transition area, and as it became close to the time for me to go, I nearly started crying from terror. The officials at the start told me to go, I went over the giant speed bump out of the transition area (really, race directors, was this necessary?) and directly onto the first hill to the road without an issue.

It didn’t take long into the ride before I almost ate it. At the 1.8-mile point, we had to do an extremely narrow u-turn. I went off the road into the dirt, but somehow managed to get back onto the road unscathed. The first Big Nasty Climb came around mile five. I learned two things on this climb. One, you have to decide before the climb whether you want to ride it or get off the bike and walk it. Cyclists ride with hard-soled shoes that are clipped into the pedals. Unless your clip-out skills are sublime, you can’t clip out on a steep, wet uphill without ending up on the ground. If you change your mind halfway up, you have to suck it up and find a way to get to the top. Two, if you have such a death grip on the handlebars of your super light road bike that you are pulling up, the bike will oblige you by lifting up the front wheel. This makes it both harder to climb and more likely that the bike will decide you are worthy of ejection.

The first 10 miles of the ride were particularly brutal, and then it and I calmed down for a bit. I was staying hydrated with my camelback, which easily identified me as someone who needed to be passed by everyone else, and got my nutrients by eating a Gu Chomp every 15 minutes. I decided to move really slow and stick to low gears to lower the risk of my bike chain escaping its home. I coasted every descent, and braked heavily through a lot of the more intense ones.

The hills started to get more severe again in the mid-20s, and my whole body was hurting from spending all that time digging into the handle bars with all my strength. I had ibuprofen in my pocket, but couldn’t reach it. By the aid station at mile 39, I was hurting badly. Still, I was about to go past it without stopping when I noticed the sharp climb right past it. The climb had a turn, and it was impossible to gauge how long the ascent would last. I decided to hop off and walk the bike up, so I also had a chance to get to my pill. It was probably a combination of the slight break from riding and the painkiller, but I felt much better after that. I expected the nastiest of the Big Nasty Hills to come at mile 39, but because of last-minute course corrections stemming from roads being flooded, it presented itself at mile 44. I remembered it from the car ride, and immediately dismounted and started hoofing it up the hill. Lots of other riders joined in. A few riders who apparently did not check out the course continued riding it, likely not realizing that what looked like the crest of the hill up ahead was a turn leading to twice of the same of what they had just tackled. I heard lots of very colorful language and the name of every known deity taken in vain. I heard it clearly, too, because the riders were moving almost as slow as I was walking.

All manner of bike carnage appeared along the ride. I saw too many people dealing with popped chains and flat tires to count. One ambulance passed with sirens blaring, and I had to weave around another. Serious competitors with $10,000 tri bikes sat by the side of the road, mournfully watching me go by while they waited for mechanical assistance. None of this was surprising given the conditions of debris, wet leaves and sometimes even small streams of water we had to ride through. The race directors did a great job of clearing what they could, but there’s only so much you can do with weather conditions like what we faced.

I tackled one last Big Nasty Hill at mile 51 and settled in for the last four miles (they announced that they cut off a mile on race morning because of road conditions). At mile 53 1/2, a large crowd appeared, and I suddenly saw the best sign I have ever seen in my life: “BIKE IN.” T1! My ride was over, a mile and a half earlier than expected. I was ecstatic and immensely relieved, and I spent extra time chatting with others in transition while getting ready for the run.

I think it was the joy of being off the bike that made my legs feel really good at the beginning of the run. I had to remind myself to slow down. But I was happy, happy, joking with the volunteers and high-fiving my friends who were also racing the event. The run, advertised as relatively flat, was hilly compared to other runs I’ve done, but not compared to the bike. I held a nice steady pace, walked the water stations and walked some of the ascents. When it started to get tough in the last six miles, my marathon experience kicked in, and I settled into the grind. I had ribbons on the back of my jersey with the names of my own and my supporters’ loved ones who have fought cancer. I thought about those names a lot. I had Shelly’s name on a ribbon on the front of my jersey. I thought about her through the whole race. These fights inspired me and humbled me, and I was very emotional when I turned the corner into the finish. I heard my name announced as I crossed the finish line, kissed Shelly’s ribbon and collected my medal. I finished in 6 hours and 25 minutes, with a bike ride of 3 hours and 57 minutes and a half marathon of 2 hours and 20 minutes.

This wasn’t just a triumph for me, but a win against cancer. It was an amazing experience to conquer my fears and accomplish something like this for myself and at the same time so much bigger than myself.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who donated and wished me well. And thank you again. Also, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my friend, Sheryl Massie, who came to support me, try in vain to keep me calm, sleep on a lumpy sofa in the hotel, cheer for me on the course and drive my poor wrecked body home. Everyone needs a friend like Sheryl.

Epilogue:

1. I am now going to be on the committee for Team DetermiNation, and I plan to be actively involved for years to come. This means you’ll be hearing from me again about other events. I promise that every event I do I will pay the race entry fee, so no one should ever feel I am asking for donations just to participate in a new event.

2. While I am very proud that I finished this, because of the swim and bike mileage being cut, I feel like the 70.3 is unfinished business. There is another 70.3 coming up in Austin, Texas on October, 23 and, well, I already trained…. Stay tuned.

3. It’s now in my head that I want to do a full before I’m 50. Sorry, mom, but it’s partially your fault for giving me that “I am an Ironman” book.

Finally Worthy of My Bike?

2011-09-25T15:24:00.000-07:00

Hello, road bike. We have to have a little talk. You are a beautiful, powerful machine. You are fast, light and agile, and any cyclist would be proud to ride with you.

I don’t know what you thought when I claimed you at the bike shop. You must have been hoping for a serious male rider in his early thirties looking for a race-worthy bike. You got a 42-year-old woman who actually let out a cheer when she heard the pumpkin donuts were again available at DD. Since you came home with me, you have spent almost all of your time sitting in a corner. When you have gone outside, you learned that I have become a nervous rider, and I’m slower than I used to be. I know you want to break free and fly, but I just don’t have that kind of power any more.

Next week, however, is your moment. You get to do the kind of ride your mommies and daddies at Scott Bikes imagined when they created you. It is a 56- mile race, and it has switchbacks and lots of steep and long climbs and descents. Now, we both know that you are far more equipped than I to handle this ride, but we have to do this together. You’ve been bathed, checked and re-greased in anticipation, and you are perfect. I believe in you – you will keep a nice steady ride, your tires will stay inflated, your chain will stay in place and all of your parts will be in proper working order. Since this race is much harder for me than it is for you, I am quite nervous. But I promise you this: I will do my very best to be worthy of you. So let’s do this race and make each other proud.

Queen of All Media

2011-08-30T19:04:00.000-07:00

Here's a link:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?fr_id=35316&pg=personal&px=22260434

This is my personal page for team DetermiNation. I joined DetermiNation to raise money for the American Cancer Society by completing a half Ironman in the Poconos in October. The personal page has my other blog. That's right, I now have two blogs. The demand was just too great for only one, as you can see by the multitudes of followers and comments to my posts. So I am now a media empire, as I always should have been.

Fears

2011-08-29T09:11:00.000-07:00

Under five weeks to go until Poconos 70.3, and I’m scared. Of everything.

I’m afraid of fish. Much as I’ve started to appreciate the open-water swims I’ve been doing, I don’t like sharing lakes and rivers with other creatures. I’d say they probably feel the same way about me, but it’s more likely they see me as comic relief. To the lakes’ natural inhabitants, I am “Jersey Shore.” I was in Lake Nockamixon a few weeks ago, and I heard a buzzing when I passed a buoy. I punched it into high gear and swam as fast as I’ve ever swum in my life until the buzzing subsided. I almost swam as fast as other people, that’s how freaked I was.

I’m afraid of swimming against the current when I’m already tired. I’m afraid of being dead last in the swim. I’m afraid of using so much energy on the swim that I don’t have much left to start the bike.

On the bike, I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of road rash. I’m afraid of broken collarbones. I’m afraid of damaging my new bike. I’m so afraid of my aero bars that I had them removed for the season. I’ll try again next year. I’m afraid of clipping out of the pedals, because I never feel stable and I have tipped over. I’m afraid of grabbing my water bottle. I’m absolutely terrified of the concept of a bottle exchange. I’m afraid of climbing large hills. I’m also afraid of descending them. I’m afraid of debris on the road. I’m afraid of other riders, and also cars and pedestrians. I’m afraid of getting a flat that will take me so long to repair that I won’t finish the event before the time cutoff.

I’m afraid I’ll screw up the transition areas so that when I finish the bike and get to T2, my running shoes aren’t there. I’m afraid that all of the joints that have given me problems, particularly ankles, knees and hips will act up at once, or that one will be so severe I won’t be able to continue. I’m afraid of chafing. I’m afraid that I’ll be so tired that I’ll have to walk the entire half marathon at too slow a pace to make the time cutoff. I’m afraid of the hill at mile 8. I’m afraid my nutrition plan isn’t good enough, leading to an unrecoverable bonk.

I’m afraid of bears. I hadn’t even considered this until my training camp, when someone told me he saw one.

I’m afraid I’m undertrained. I’m afraid I’ll look fat in my tri suit.

I’m afraid of the weather. There’s the Big Obvious Problem, though thunderstorms hopefully are not as likely on October 2. But I’m afraid of rain on the bike, and I’m really afraid of wind. I’m afraid it will be too hot. I’m afraid it will be too cold.

By confronting all of these fears and doing the race anyway, you might think I’m brave. And maybe I am, but that’s only because I have an inspiration. My sister has to get in the car every week to have poisons pumped into her veins, knowing full well they will leave her feeling horribly nauseated and fatigued. She’s had to deal with surgeries and nasty needles and rooms full of students examining her body. Over and over and over again, she has to sit in rooms to wait to hear test results that determine how hard her road is going forward. Through it all, she is a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and teacher, and an amazing one. Each day she looks into the eyes of the people who love her and are terrified for her, and she is brave for them. From the time I was born, she’s been my hero. I always knew she had it in her to be the woman she is today.

So I’ll manage all of the fears above, because, really, they’re little (except, maybe, if I actually encounter a bear). But if you want to throw a “good luck” my way, I’ll take it.

Is It Selfish To Raise Money For Charity?

2011-07-11T13:55:00.001-07:00

Hi. My name is Jill, and I am a compulsive race enterer. I sign up for everything, 5ks, 10ks, half-marathons, 10-milers, marathons, bike rides, triathlons. I won’t let myself do the math, but if there was a pie chart of my expenses, the race fees section would look just like Pac Man. My moment of clarity on this came last month, when I was at the expo for the Philly Tri talking with people from the DetermiNation team for the American Cancer Society. DetermiNation, like other charity teams, trains you and pays your race fees in exchange for you raising a certain amount of money for the underlying charity. At the expo, they handed me their list of upcoming events, and I realized that I had already registered for every one of them.

While almost every event I do either fully supports a charity or has some charitable component, I’ll be honest. I’m signing up mostly because I want to do the event itself. That my race fee is going to a worthy cause is an excellent bonus, but is usually just that, a bonus. I have certainly participated in events primarily to raise money for the underlying charity, e.g., Race for the Cure, the ACS Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk, 5ks for Haiti, for family members of fallen police officer and firefighters, etc. Other times, my motives were split right down the middle, such as my first marathon in Alaska, in which I raised $4,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society via Team in Training, or the MS150 City to Shore Bike ride that I do every year, an event that raises millions of dollars annually toward MS research.

I often feel some guilt about fundraising for these events. While I know the money contributed is tremendously helpful to exceedingly worthy causes, there is still that part of me that feels like I’m asking you to pay for me to do yet another race. That is why for most events I do I just cover the amount myself and don’t solicit additional donations. Even when I do solicit donations for an event, I try to cover the minimum fundraising level myself, so that I feel I am actually asking for donations, and not a race entry fee. Depending on the year and event, however, this is not always possible. Still, there I am again every year, virtual tin cup in hand (thank you, Facebook!), requesting you support my walk/run/ride. I have to remind myself it IS a good thing to raise funds for charity, even if I get something personal out of doing it.

This year is different. I am currently paid and registered for the biggest event I had ever planned on doing, the Half Ironman triathlon in the Poconos in October. I am also registered for the Rock ‘n Roll Philly half marathon in September and the full Philly Marathon in November. I was deeply excited when I signed up for these. Now, I’m ambivalent at best. My change of heart occurred when we learned that my sister, Michelle, who so bravely fought her breast cancer a few years ago, would have to do it all over again, but this time against a metastatic recurrence. Suddenly wasting every spare minute of my time for a 70.3 sticker to put on my car seems stupid and empty. A Half Ironman no longer feels consequential to me, not in the way that spending time with my family does. The fees for the races and supplemental stuff such as hotel rooms and gear are already paid and non-refundable, so I’ve toyed with the idea of doing the events without really training intensely for them.

There is a way to make the races meaningful, however, and it goes back to DetermiNation. I can decide to train for these races in a way that doesn’t interrupt my time with my family, but it means I won’t perform anywhere near my personal best. And I can sign up with team DetermiNation, thereby bringing good money to the American Cancer Society, an organization I admire deeply. So wait to hear from me, because very soon I likely will don my electronic sandwich board and grab my e-mail bell to get you to donate to the ACS. And this time, it really will be for the ACS.

The Stupidest Idea in the History of Time

2011-01-30T14:40:00.000-08:00

I’ve done some idiotic athletic things over the years. I’ve ignored virtually every injury I’ve had, unless they’ve completely immobilized me. I ran at least 300 miles in training for the Steamtown Marathon with a tear in my Achilles tendon, and then the race itself. I don’t stretch enough. I don’t pay enough attention to core strength. I have not been on a consistent weight training program in years. I’m even lax about icing down the problem areas. My training diet has improved, but I still think of a complex carb as a regular white-flour carb embellished with cheese.

None of this comes even close to comparing to the crime against common sense I’m about to commit. Four marathons and eight half marathons in, and I’ve finally achieved average status in these events. It’s time for me to suck at something new.

Several years ago, while rehabbing a high ankle sprain I was only allowed to swim for exercise. A few weeks into the PT, I was then put on the exercise bike. Finally, I was permitted to run. Swim/bike/run. So, of course, at the first opportunity, I signed up for a sprint triathlon. The race included a .25 mile swim, a 16 mile ride and a 3.1 mile run in Middletown, Delaware. The swim was in a nice, warm and calm pond. To prepare, I had only been swimming in my gym’s pool. When I hit the open water in the tri, I panicked. I couldn’t put my face down, and every time I was tagged by another competitor, I shrieked. My stroke turned into a hybrid freestyle-doggie paddle. All of this caught the attention of one of the rescue personnel, who rowed his boat up to me and offered to pluck me from the water. I refused, protesting that I actually trained for this thing. He hovered nearby, likely assuming I would either change my mind or drown, until I finished. I was the second to the last person out of the water. The last swimmer hit the shore and promptly puked on it.

I haven’t done another tri since then. The idea flashed through my mind now and again, but I brushed it off by signing up for a new marathon.

This year, I rejoined my old gym, the one with the pool. I’ve been swimming once a week. I had forgotten how much I enjoy it, even though I’m ridiculously slow. Simultaneously, two of my running friends signed up for a triathlon in October, and they have been talking about their spring and summer training plan.

I started thinking about that October triathlon. I began believing I could do it, and that it could even be good for me because it would compel me to cross train. Like most triathlons, there’s a lake swim, then a bike ride with some hills, followed by a run.

Now for the stupid: it’s not a sprint tri. It’s also not an Olympic distance tri. I am currently poised to sign up for a half-Ironman in the Poconos. Yes, folks, this is a 1.2-mile swim, followed by a 56-mile ride, followed by a 13.1-mile run, 70.3 miles that all must be accomplished in under eight hours.

I’m not afraid of the ride or the run, though I do know that doing these things in combination makes them exponentially more difficult than mastering each on its own. If I survive the swim, I’m sure I’ll get through those legs of the event. The challenge here is getting through a 1.2-mile swim when my only open-water experience of 1/5 of this length nearly resulted in an emergency rescue. I think it’s because of the swimming disaster that I’m compelled to go for this. It is unfinished business, and I need an event of this magnitude to force me into preparing properly. If I do this, I’ll finally have conquered it. And I’ll get a 70.3 sticker for my car.

On a Tendon and a Prayer

2010-09-16T19:59:00.001-07:00

In addition to the acquired wisdom from marathon training that I have already described in this blog, I’ve learned something else. I can’t ever climb Mt. Everest. I sort of knew that I couldn’t before, because I’m terrified of walking on ice, I prefer better food options than items from a can heated on a small burner, and I complain when the office temperature drops below 73 degrees. I also enjoy oxygen. No, the new proof that scaling Everest would be disastrous is that I now know I would be one of those schmucks who dies on the mountain because they refuse to yield the summit when conditions make that necessary. Yes, I would be one of those idiots watching the advancing storm and saying “screw it, I worked too hard to give up now.” And three hours later some poor hapless Sherpa would be stuck trying to drag my ignorant butt off the mountain.

This new self-awareness comes from a sad source. My right Achilles tendon, which has been chronicled in this blog as persistently obstructive to my running happiness, is trying again to play the role of marathon spoiler. It’s a mess. I am certain it is partially torn; there is burning pain and swelling. My marathon is in three weeks and three days. I have two more long runs, one of which is 23 miles, and at least another 30 miles of short runs before I can do a pre-race taper. If I stop running right now, the tendon will improve for the race, but I’ll lose a lot of the performance due to the missed final training weeks. If I maintain the training, there is a high likelihood the tendon will completely rupture.

My last entry was all about the intense work I put into training for this race. The theme was that what I learned from the training was the real reward. That was bull. The reward is crossing the finish line at Steamtown with a significantly faster time than I have ever achieved in a marathon. That’s why I worked so hard, and that’s what I really want. It’s impossible for most people to understand, but I just can’t give up my summit, even if it means surgery, crutches and a year of rehab. At least no Sherpas will have to risk their lives to pull me off the course.

One Month to Go

2010-09-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

The Steamtown Marathon is in one month, and I am trained. This does not mean I’m done my training. My hardest weeks are the next three, which include two individual runs of 22 miles or more and weekly mileage totals between 45- 50 miles. I am at the point, however, that if the race were next week, I could do it, and maybe even do it well.

Now that I’m so close to the marathon, I’ve been reflecting on why I wanted to do this and what I get out of it. Particularly for this marathon, because I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard toward any single goal in my life as I have for this one. Even when I studied for the Bar Exam, I know there was a small bit of slack in there, an occasional study day blown off, an evening staring at the TV rather than subject outlines.

Not this time. Since I began training in February, I skipped exactly two training runs. Both of those runs were in the same week, a work week that was the most intensely busy and stressful of my professional career. It was also a week that had been planned as a recovery week, and in which my ankle was giving me particular grief.

Each time I had a scheduled run, I ran it, every single mile planned. If I was tired, I ran anyway. If my head hurt or I otherwise didn’t feel well, I ran. If it was 103 degrees outside, I ran. If I had to do every long Saturday run in intense heat, I did it. If that heat meant that, even though I was deep into sleep deficit, I had to get up at 4:30 am every Saturday morning so I would be finished running before the day got even hotter, I did that too. I trudged up and down the extremely steep Lemon Hill 10 times each every Thursday, even if the temperature was in the high 90s and humid. I skipped happy hours and good television and curling up with a book, just so I could find the time to run. I even dieted during all of this, giving me ten fewer pounds to drag over the 26.2-mile course.

The true tests really came as the long training runs started. The first 12 miler was set for the hottest day of the summer. Maybe you remember: 100 degrees with high humidity, so a heat index of 110. I was overly tired and already dehydrated from the week, so I was concerned about, well, dying. I didn’t cancel; I ran it on the treadmill instead, just like a caged rat. Twelve miles on the treadmill sucks, but I got my distance in.

Two weeks later was my 14-mile long run. That day, it cooled off to 96 humid degrees. Eleven and a half miles in, it seems as if I’m going to make it. And then, hot and tired, I tripped on uneven pavement. From this I enjoyed five large raspberries on my knees and shoulder, heavy bruising on my cheek (the face cheek, not the other one) and a deep cut in my ear. A very nice woman came over to assist me as I was lying on the ground and uttering some very unladylike exclamations. She noted that I landed on my head, and I should let her give me a ride home. The smart thing to do would be to accept, but then how would I get my miles in? So I declined, squirted water from the bottle in my pack over my wounds, and walked the remaining three miles home.

I was thrilled the morning of my 16-mile run that the temperature wasn’t supposed to exceed 90 degrees. A good day to tackle the Valley Forge Park loop! The path in Valley Forge Park is completely exposed to the sun and entirely uphill, which should be impossible as it is a 5.4 mile loop. The hills are long and steep. I figured I would do one loop, and then head to the Schuylkill River trail, which is flat, for the remaining miles. After one loop, I felt good, so I ran a second loop. I still felt ok when I finished that, so I started a third. Halfway through the third, I believe I was audibly sobbing. I didn’t stop running though (I did slow down).

The 18-mile and 20-mile training runs went as well as runs that long can be. I lucked into a great training partner, who has made being out there that long tolerable.

As of now, I’ve had eight weeks in which I’ve run in excess of 40 miles. I’m also currently training on my bicycle for the MS150 City to Shore ride in two weeks. My 41-year-old body is pissed off and hates my brain. My muscles have more knots in them than a sisal rug, and I think there is even lactic acid build up in my hair. My ankles are so shot that I’ll be lucky to ever walk on them again.

The payoff is that I am now something I never was when I was younger and always aspired to be: disciplined. I decided to do something, and I did all of the work necessary to do it, no matter how hard, painful, annoying or inconvenient. This running discipline has carried over to other parts of my life. My house is clean, my mail is organized, I follow through on the things that require it.

My twin goals for the marathon remain the same: 1) run it close to or under four hours; 2) don’t die. And while a 3:59:59 marathon would be amazing, I feel that whether or not I actually achieve it is beside the point. By getting myself to a place in which it could be possible, I’m already victorious.

Weather or Not

2010-07-05T16:18:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, while enveloped in 12 layers of clothing and barricaded in my house behind a mountain of snow, I decided that I would run the Steamtown Marathon. Steamtown, as a net downhill and very well organized marathon, is a seemingly good choice for my goal of trying to break four hours. That Steamtown, on October 10, is one of the earlier fall marathons did not faze me at a time when I was preoccupied trying to figure out who might have remaining supplies of ice melt. When crafting my training schedule, it did not occur to me to be concerned that my long training runs of 16-20 miles and greatest escalation of weekly running miles would occur in July and August instead September and October. Why? Because it’s easy to be in denial about the difficulty of training in the heat when you have to remove a pair of mittens to type your training plan.

Let me be plain. I despise running in the heat. I hate the heat with, well, a white hot intensity. It’s not just running. I’ve never liked hot weather at all. I consider Miami, for example, a fun place to visit in February, but it just sounds like pure misery from April through October.

As I’ve mentioned before in this blog, my body type could not be more different from that of a good distance runner. The best marathoners are tiny little wispy people who do not consider pizza fries to be a good carb-loading option. Just last week there was an article in the New York Times about a male 10-k runner who, at 6’1” and 165 pounds, is considered freakishly huge in his circuit. Bigger runners have a tougher time with distance anyway, and studies consistently show that larger runners suffer exponentially more in hotter weather.

Anyone reading this from this region of the country can see where I’m going. Training for a marathon in this particular summer simply sucks. We’ve had such a prolonged period of intense heat that the TV weather guys are talking about a “cool down” to 97 degrees on Thursday without any irony. Last Tuesday night, the cumulative effect of all the heat and the lack of sleep due to it caught up with me, and I had my worst training run of the year. I was miserable, thirsty and cramping from too much water at the same time. I couldn’t breathe, and I had to walk to finish. This was completely and utterly discouraging for a relatively short run. Happily, I got a reprieve. This crash was followed by two days of perfect summer weather, high of only 80 degrees with low humidity, which restored my spirits.

I don’t know if I can count on such a break to come again. It certainly doesn’t look like I’ll get one this week. I have to find my inner optimist, the one who will remind me that if I can force myself to train (carefully!) in these conditions, I’ll be stronger for it, and better prepared in October. Maybe this is just what I need for my sub-four, which reinforces that this was an insane idea from the beginning.

Toys for Trots

2010-05-14T16:51:00.000-07:00

I’m a shopper. I can’t be sure if it’s because of nature or nurture, but I love to buy shiny new things. I’m the type of person who gets just as excited about the gift shop at any destination as the destination itself. Every time I get into a new hobby, I’m equally enthralled by its merchandise.

Running, an activity done by barefoot tribesmen on dirt roads, provides an excellent opportunity to indulge in retail therapy. There are stores dedicated solely to running -- a beautiful thing. Just purchasing shoes means you have a myriad of choices, and you can change your mind every two months when your old pair wears out. Then there are the clothes, with all the new advancements in climate control, the cool gym bags with all the clever compartments, the watches that offer all sorts of other timing options besides telling time, hydration products, books and magazines, recovery and therapy products. The list goes on and on. If you’d like proof of this, go try to buy a simple running hat. The range of choices is dizzying.

While I scoff at the people who run out to get iPad and the newest Wii games, as a runner I am both an early adopter and a toy-hound. I’ll try virtually any new product that claims it will make my running life easier/faster/more comfortable/less injurious/cute. I have superlight sunglasses, orthotic insoles for my shoes, a Spibelt to carry stuff, a Road ID tag on my shoe and a mix of every kind of technical clothing imaginable. With all the different brands I resemble a NASCAR vehicle when I run, only not quite as sleek.

So when the hardcover book about running (Born to Run, Christopher McDougall) I was reading claimed that injuries are caused by running shoes, and a barefoot-style shoe call Vibram FiveFingers could help, I immediately bought those too. The theory on barefooting is that running shoes actually cause injuries by providing so much support and control that your natural form suffers. Vibrams contour to your foot and around your toes, giving you the form of barefoot movement with a soul for protection from the ground. Mine are pink, and, as my new brother-in-law helpfully pointed out, they look like they should be part of a Barney costume. They take getting used to, but the change in form they trigger is immediate and dramatic. I am so optimistic that these will become my primary running shoe that I have already picked out a second pair for rotation.

A few weeks ago I was on my Saturday morning group run, running with Seth, who I suspect slowed down to hang with me out of pity. Every mile a beeping sound would emanate from Seth’s wrist. He would then announce the precise pace in which we had completed that particular mile. He could do this because he was wearing a Garmin Forerunner 305 watch, which tracks your runs with satellites. I have wanted one of these since I heard of the concept, but for years the reception in cities was simply not that good. But now they’ve improved, and they work where I need them to work. By the second beep, I knew the 305 would be on my wrist within weeks.

It arrived at my office this past week, just a few hours before my Tuesday night group run. I drove everyone at work crazy beeping away while I was trying to set the thing up. I didn’t have time to properly ingest the instructions before I went for the group run. Luckily for me, another runner in my pace group, Tracy, was wearing one. This was most unfortunate for her, because of the barrage of questions she had to deal with from me. “How do I get it to beep each mile?” “How can I see the pace?” “How fast did we just go?” “What time is it?” And on and on. “Is our pace going up a lot?” Yes, it was, because poor Tracy was frantically trying to shake me loose. I annoyed the stuffing out of her, but I think she got an eight-minute mile out of it. If I ever figure out the Forerunner, I know I will love it. It has the coolest features I’ve ever seen. I can make it beep at me if I’m going too slowly. It can help me find my way home if I make a wrong turn. It can even create a little image of a virtual opponent, who can either beat me or not depending on what the Garmin people decide.

I don’t know what running gadget I’ll have to have next week. I do know it is a very good thing that qualifying for the Boston Marathon is virtually impossible for me. I would definitely be one of those people decked out head to toe in Boston Athletic Association gear, which is the running equivalent of shoes on the beach.

Quest for Four

2010-05-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

While I was sitting around last fall and winter, staring longingly at my running shoes and waiting for my ankle to heal, I had some time to ruminate on my running ability and goals. There are certain realities I should face. I’m over 40, my knees hurt, both Achilles tendons are damaged, I have strange big toe pain and some weird problem in my hip. I’m not skinny enough to run distance, but I really don’t care to lose any weight. My best marathon time is 4:32, decent for a regular person, but it’s not going to get me any shoe deals. The intelligent approach would be to stop pushing myself so hard, cross-train on the bike at least as often as I run and, most important of all, lay off the marathons.

I used to be smart, maybe even smart enough to follow this path. But I’m not anymore. I think the oxygen deprivation from all that running has killed the common sense brain cells. So my current plan is to run one or maybe even two marathons this fall, and to complete one in less than four hours. This goal is so ridiculous for me that I may offer it to the Merriam Webster people for consideration as a definition of delusional.

The idea of breaking four hours started germinating in my mind a year ago, when I kept setting personal records at races. It really took hold, however, when I volunteered at the Philly Marathon in November. My assignment at the Marathon was to hand out medals at the finish line. This gig was a blast. I was right there when the winner crossed, and I got to see all of the ecstatic people who finished with Boston Marathon qualifying times. I’ve never been there to witness all of the people coming in under three and four hours. Despite the cool air, they were sweating profusely, and many were stumbling as soon as they finished. I saw a lot of paramedics rushing to help runners who simply could not take another step. Witnessing the sweaty zombies, my brain damage spoke to me. It said, look at these people; you are not working hard enough.

When I mentioned my goal to the bright-eyed jolly members of my running club, they assured me that of course I can do this. That they had to tell me this at the post-run dinner because I can never keep up with them during the run itself did not factor in their conclusion. In fact, they said, I should try to qualify for Boston. They’re not crazy; I’m just so far behind them they’ve never actually seen me run.

I have picked the marathon for the attempt: Steamtown in Scranton on October 10. I’ve also signed up for the Philly Marathon in November as a backup. My training plan requires me to run five days a week, getting up to 50 miles a week by marathon time, cross-train on my bike on a sixth day, and incorporate weight and core training and yoga. I also have to lose at least 10 pounds, which sucks because the only reason I run in the first place is so that I can eat what I like. As of now, I’m up to 29 miles a week, and I’m working hard to bypass the basket of Hershey miniatures that is left for us at work every day. I also spent money I don’t have on a Garmin Forerunner to track my pace, because ordering it was a training tactic I could accomplish while sitting on my butt in front of the computer.

Even if I manage to do all of this, I still don’t know if I can break four. Worse yet, if I do achieve this goal, there’s a darker, scarier idea bouncing around in that otherwise empty head of mine, too impossible to address.

Back on Treadmill

2010-03-11T16:58:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday September, 22, I ran for the last time in 2009. At the time, I didn't realize I was finished for the remainder of the year. I thought two months would be sufficient for my achilles tendon to stop hurting. By the end of December, however, while it did hurt less, it still wasn't perfect. This cost me one of my most treasured New Year's day rituals -- running past the drunk attendees of the Mummer's Parade.

The tendon still wasn't perfect at the end of January either. By then, however, the combination of the economy's impact on my checking account, the cold weather, the short days and the lack of running had turned me into Cranky McCrankypants. Really. Godzilla meets the old guy who yells at you to get off his lawn-cranky. Ask anyone who had the misfortune of trying to communicate with me then and only heard some gutteral combination of a hiss and a growl in response.

At this point, I had to weigh the pros and cons of running. Con: I could still snap the achilles tendon. Pros: I could start training for spring races; I could start working toward meeting my New Year's resolution of a four-hour marathon; I could be fit without having to sit for 90 minutes on a bike trainer, the most boring piece of exercise equipment ever created; I could prevent my mood from descending from slightly grouchy to top story on the news psychotic.

In this particular mind-body war, mind won. With a well-taped ankle, I hopped on the treadmill in the last week of January. It wasn't bad. I obviously lost speed and stamina, but all that time on the bike trainer did leave me with some level of fitness.

Six weeks later, I have added mileage and speed, and the ankle is no worse than before. I even ventured outside for the first time last week, and all was well.

So I'm back in training. Despite being far behind where I was last year at this time, I am still hoping to get a 5-k personal record at a race I'm doing in April. I am planning on completing the Broad Street Run in May.

Then there's the four-hour marathon. To do that, hopefully in the second week of October, I'll have to do more weekly mileage than ever before. To do that safely, I can only add that mileage slowly. Which means that as of right now, I'm in marathon training. On a taped-up ankle. But I guess a torn tendon is better than a ruptured soul.

Heeding the Call to Heal the Heel

2009-10-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

I have found my runner’s Achilles heel, and it is my Achilles tendon. I had some nagging pain starting in the middle of summer. I am an older, bigger, born-with-the-sloth-gene runner, so I get random pains all the time. It’s my knees, or my toes, or my hip. Despite all the good advice to the contrary, generally I ignore the pain, and generally it mysteriously vanishes.

I told myself all sorts of stories about the new tendon pain. I convinced myself that it was just stiffness or some mild tendonitis, and stretching and icing it down would be a completely sufficient way to deal with it. I believed it couldn’t be a serious problem, because both ankles were bothering me, and what were the chances of tears in both tendons at the same time. I said all this to myself even when the pain in the right tendon turned sharp and a hard bump formed on the ankle.

Then one day something happened that could have either been a dose of reality or another opportunity for delusion. I forgot to pack socks in my gym bag for a six-mile run on the treadmill, and I ran all six miles anyway. For days after that run, the inflammation on my ankle was screaming red, huge and very painful. I stopped running for about a week, and asked every runner I saw what I should do. Everyone said “go see a doctor,” until I got to the person I was looking for, the one who said “it could be your shoes.” So I went to the running store to change shoes.

The tendon felt better after a week off from running, and I embraced the idea that it was just a shoe problem after all. The pain, however, came back quickly. But it returned just a few weeks before the Philadelphia Distance Run, so I decided to do a three-week taper, run the PDR, and then see where I stood.

I had a fantastic PDR, considering that I had hardly run at all for a full month leading up to it. My time was 2:02:53, a personal record by more than nine minutes and very close to my ultimate half-marathon goal of breaking two hours. I felt so good that I went for a run again two days later. Walking home after the run, I again had sharp pain.

I was finally ready to accept reality. My Achilles tendon was injured enough to require a doctor’s visit and to stop me from running at all until I knew what was wrong with it. I did not want to see a doctor before this because I knew the doctor would tell me to stop running, maybe for months. I finally went to a podiatrist this week. He told me to stop running, and he is absolutely right. He believes the tendon has tears in it, and if I keep pressing the issue, it could rupture completely. We’re going to confirm this with an MRI, but the reason I finally broke down to go see a doctor is that deep down, I know he’s right.

So I have to ignore the beautiful perfect autumn running weather happening all around me. Instead I sit bored to tears on an exercise bike in the gym, and will be doing a lot of standing on one foot under the supervision of a physical therapist. And through all of this, I keep repeating my new mantra: “you’re lucky it didn’t snap; you’re lucky it didn’t snap…”

The Yuck Chronicles

2009-08-12T12:51:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend who is marathon training sought my advice for a delicate problem. Remembering that I had previously heartily recommended the purchase and liberal use of Body Glide, she asked in hushed tones whether I ever had chafing in odd places after my long run. When I inquired about which particular odd places, she sheepishly pointed behind her.

Now, I’m still a little too girly to confirm in a forum this public that I’ve ever had direct experience with my butt cheeks getting a little too chummy with each other during runs. Let’s just say I’m familiar with the existence of this issue. Yes, it happens. No, it doesn’t mean you have a big ass.

While embarrassing, on the scale of running related ickiness, this problem doesn’t even approach the highest level of gross. The activity that is arguably the poster child of clean living is actually quite disgusting.

At this point, I would like to warn my reader (Hi Dave!) not to eat while reading this. Below are some of the things that make you go ewwww.

Feet. Runner’s feet are notoriously bad. While some runners are blessed with the genetics that allow them to maintain perfect flip-flop ready tootsies, others quickly develop appendages that look like they should be exhibits in the Mutter Museum. Thick black toenails anyone? Blisters? Scaly toe tips? Pedicurists just love us. As does everyone else when we announce that we feel so much better because the toenail finally fell off. Add to that the sinking realization that the late night excruciating itching between your toes means you have contracted the fungal infection known as athlete’s foot, and you know you will never mate with anyone possessing a foot fetish.

Sweat. We’re moist and stinky. We know this, and it doesn’t stop us from going for coffee or food shopping on the way home from a run. I know of at least two running groups that go straight from their runs to a bar, sans intervening shower. I’ve heard of beer goggles; are there beer nose clips? Also, speaking for myself here, I know that when I work hard on a treadmill, I create a sweat spray rather like a city fountain that lacks water pressure restrictions. This does have the benefit of ensuring the treadmill next to me is the very last one claimed.

Potty. Ah, yes, the phrase “the runs” does have two separate meanings, but they have been known to intersect. Sometimes, usually without warning, all that bouncing up and down dislodges the bagel you placed in your belly earlier in the day. If you are a business that has a restroom, you have an interesting dilemma on your hands when a sweaty, pale and clearly desperate jogger begs you for use of your restroom. If you say yes, you will be enjoying some fine karma, because, believe me, that runner is really in need. You will also be creating some warm fuzzy feelings in that runner for your establishment (thank you again, Copabanana in University City!). The flip side is that they will be in your bathroom for at least ten minutes, and the person following them in should bring a mask and a gross of matches to light. I think you would have to grant bathroom privileges in this instance. Otherwise would be like steaming away from a lifeboat full of shipwreck survivors.

Also, most runners participating in races, particularly races longer than five miles, use the portajohn first. While some portajohns have hand sanitizing lotion in them, most still don’t. Disgusting in and of itself, compounded when you think about that box of soft-pretzels and bagels that everyone is tearing into at the finish line. But we’re all very healthy.

Insanity Loves Company

2009-07-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

I’m officially in denial about the Philly Marathon. I refuse to admit that I’m actually going to run it in November, yet I have registered, paid the fee, bought extra pairs of running shoes, crafted a training plan and started following it. I really think I don’t want to do this, so I’m looking for a place to cast blame for compelling me to engage in this self-torture. I have a suspect.

Philly Runners is a local running group that meets a few times a week in front of the Art Museum. It is a free group that welcomes runners of all abilities. It has a core of regulars, some people who show up periodically and others who pop in just once. The group is completely comprised of shiny happy people. Everyone is nice, friendly and non-judgmental. There is no “you don’t run an eight-minute-mile-distance pace?” snobbery.

That said, generally they run an eight-minute-mile pace. Before each run, someone calls out the pace groups. First is faster than seven-minute miles, which maybe yields one or two hands. Then seven to seven and a half, seven and a half to eight, and so on up to 10-minute miles. They will call out a group for over 10 minutes if it seems there is an interest. Most hands go up between eight and eight and a half, and the next largest bulk is between eight and a half and nine. There are people between nine and ten, but it is a much smaller group. I’m in this group, usually watching throngs of skinny 20-somethings take off ahead of me (actually a good number of them are around my age, a fact I choose to ignore).

My perception of reality has become severely bent running with these people. The times I have begun to think of as slow would safely put me in the top third in most local races. You should see the postings on their message board. The one currently with the largest number of replies is seeking people for Saturday morning runs of 17 miles at an eight-minute-mile pace. Another describes the eight people who came for Thursday night’s “hill sprints” in the middle of a thunderstorm a “decent turnout.”

In the real world, I tell others I am thinking of another marathon. The responses I get? “Why the hell would you do that?” “I don’t even like to drive that far!” “You’re going to kill your joints.” Running group responses? “Oh. You know, there’s a 10-mile run on the sand in Sea Isle in August. You should do that too.” “Philly? Me too. I’m going to try to qualify for Boston again.”

Marathons are a way of life in this environment. Autumn is not about falling leaves and apple-picking (except for carb-loading purposes). It’s for training. Those in the group not planning on doing a “full” (I think everyone is already signed up for the Philadelphia Distance Run, a half-marathon in September) almost sound a little defensive when discussing it. And this is why mob mentality is dangerous.

Since you didn’t ask

2009-07-09T13:34:00.000-07:00

A couple of my friends are planning to run their first marathons this November, and my sister is planning her first running race period. As a person genetically predisposed toward winning a couch-indentation contest, yet has completed three marathons anyway, I feel I should chime in with my thoughts. I’m actually an ideal person to offer advice on the psychological aspects of training because: A) I can be an emotional basket case; I have more head trips than Keith Richards; and B) I’m a know-it-all. Below are some of the mental tricks I’ve used to help me get through marathon training.

1. Do Not Dwell on the Race Distance. Whether you are a runner who has decided to run a marathon or you are a non-runner planning a five-miler, do not focus on the distance you will have to run in a race that is months away. And, do NOT drive 26.2 miles “to see how long it is.” Example: you are in the early part of your marathon training and you run 8.5 miles. You’re tired, in pain and had to push yourself just to finish. Maybe you were slower than usual or had to walk parts to finish. Your body is angry at you, and it enlists the help of your brain, which says “how will I ever do more than three times that distance?”

Tell your brain to stuff it. You are not prepared to run three times that distance, and that is fine because you do not have to do it tomorrow. Progress occurs with training, but only slowly and over time. Eventually, you will be amazed at the ease of a 10-mile run. On those hard training days you say to yourself that it was hard, but you got the work done. Period.

2. Bad Days Don’t Count. Everyone has them. They suck. You’re slow, you’re tired, you’re cranky. It takes lots of extra time to finish your goal distance for the day, and it was a huge struggle not to quit. They can actually be rewarding. The only questions you ask yourself: did I try? Did I try hard? If so, the day might have felt bad, but it was a victory. You felt like crap and pushed yourself through something you really, really didn’t want to do. Congratulations.

3. Keep a journal. This helps you keep track of why your bad days are bad, your good days are good, which shorts ride up, when your shoes feel flat, etc. Personally, I love to flip through my previous entries to see the advancements I have made over time. It’s very inspiring to see the difference from where you started to where you can get.

4. Know That You Will Get There, in This Race or the Next. The great thing about how popular road races are is that if the training-stopping monkey wrench does invade, there is always another race down the line.

Good luck to all of you racing. Let me know how it's going!

To Marathon or Not to Marathon

2009-06-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

As I was crossing the finish line at the Philadelphia Marathon last November with a time of 4 hours and 32 minutes, so close to my goal of 4 1/2 hours, I swore to myself that was my final marathon. I ran that marathon without walk breaks, despite the agony of the final five miles in which each step felt like I was hoisting an anvil. This was my first time achieving this goal, and once I had it, I felt satisfied.

For about a day.

By December, while I was still safely ensconced in the the marathon recovery period, I already knew I was going to enter the New York Marathon lottery. The New York Marathon has 35,000 spots and roughly 90,000 applicants, and they using a random lottery rather than qualifying times to pull their field. I've heard repeatedly that I need to do New York -- that it is an experience like no other. Though I tend to prefer quiet runs to an event feel, I entered the lottery as soon as it opened in January. I told myself that if I didn't get in, I would not run a marathon in 2009.

By February, I was telling myself that if I could run the Broad Street Run in under 88 minutes, I would run the Philly Marathon if I didn't get into New York. My thinking was that if I could meet that goal, with intense training, dieting and coaching I might be able to use the Philly Marathon to attempt a Boston Marathon qualifying time. For my age group, that is three hours and 50 minutes -- 26.2 miles at about an 8:50/minute pace. A ridiculous notion given that, at the time, I had never run any race, not even a 5k, at a pace under nine-minute miles.

My Broad Street time, while good at 91 minutes, did not meet this lofty goal. And I found out last week that I did not get into the 2009 New York Marathon.

So no marathon in 2009. Right? Marathons are brutal stuff. The training is intense -- it eats up all of the late summer and fall. I'd spend three months completely paranoid about injury and making sure that I always find time for my training runs, weight and core training and recovery, and the money for the extra pairs of shoes I'll need and the entrance fee. All to experience intense suffering that I still have not forgotten from last November.

I have another good reason for not running the 2009 Philly Marathon. My older sister, who has had her own hard challenges this past year, is going to run the 8k race that coincides with the marathon. I could run this with her and keep her company. In other words, running the Marathon is not only masochistic, it's selfish.

And yet, I'm on the Marathon website every day, just itching to push the application button. I'm sick, diseased, cursed with a personal-record obsession I just can't heal. But I think I can get close to four hours.

Long Boring Race Report

2009-05-06T15:16:00.000-07:00

So, here's my Broad Street Run Day.

Sunday, May 3, 2009.

5:00 am. Hit the snooze for the third time and roll out of bed. This is at least 5 hours earlier than I normally would get up on a Sunday. The dog, who I've trained to sleep in, opens one eye to stare at me as if I'm nuts and doesn't even twitch any other part of her body. Start a pot of coffee and drink a large glass of water. Do bathroom stuff while it's brewing. Apply Body Glide to all parts of my body that require Body Glide. Dress in clothes selected the night before -- capri tights and a long-sleeve light tech shirt with the race bib already pinned on it. Put on a visor and attach timing chip to running shoes. Pack gear bag with extra dry shirt and socks, cash, camera, phone, chapstick, bottle of water, an apple, some tissues and an Immodium. Back downstairs to have more water, a small cup of coffee (not the bucket I usually drink), a bagel and cream cheese and a Claritin.

It's nice in the morning -- quiet and dark. It's raining out, so I put on a light jacket and call Sadie (three times) to come downstairs for our walk. After the walk, I hop on my bike and head to Broad and Pattison.

6:15 am. It's raining, not hard, but steady. The subway station is not mobbed, but it is bustling. The subway car is full. I chat with the other riders nearest me. The subject is triathlons, which surfaces when we notice the Ironman tattoo on the shoulder of one of the riders.

6:40 am. Broad and Erie. Every one piles out of the subway, most linger in the station. The race start is not for nearly two more hours, and it's still raining. Every five minutes or so hundreds of runners come up the stairs from the platforms. I pass the time by playing the Rocky soundtrack on my Ipod.

7:15 am. I emerge from the subway. Thousands of people milling about. After handling business at the portajohn, I wander over to the track at the high school near the start line. The trick here is timing. I need to check gear, do a half-mile warm-up jog, line up at the portajohn again and leave about 10 minutes after all that to get to the start. The timing works.

8:20 am. I'm wedging myself into the red corral. This is the third corral, after the elites and people who expect to finish the run under 85 minutes, and ahead of people who anticipate finishing in more than 90 minutes. It is very congested.

8:33 am. The runner's gun (airhorn, actually) goes off. It takes nearly four minutes to get to the start. I tap the Broad Street Run banner over head, check my watch, and I'm on my way. The actual running field is not nearly as congested as I feared.

I'm feeling great at the start. I am, however, overdressed. I know I will soon regret the long-sleeve shirt and the visor. The run starts on a nice little downhill.

8:45:25. First mile marker. By my watch, this is about an 8:45 mile. Too fast for my first mile. This could hurt me later. I'm concerned, and I try to force myself to slow a bit. Still feeling great though.

2nd mile marker: 8:54:15. Slower, but still not slow enough. Pretty close to the cruising pace I was hoping for, about 8:55.

3rd mile marker: 9:03:04. Timed this mile well, and I'm still feeling strong. Regretting the hat though.

4th mile marker: 9:11:58. Tougher mile. Started to get into my head a bit. I anticipated a little emotional mini-wall here, and I talk myself through it without too much difficulty.

5th mile marker: 9:20:54. Still averaging under nine-minute miles, and I can see City Hall! I've overcome the mini-wall and I'm feeling good again, except for the damned hat. I high-five the governor at Locust Street.

6th mile marker: 9:29:55. Struggling a big, I knew this mile would be challenging. I'm heading toward a more difficult wall than the one I faced in mile four.

7th mile marker: 9:39:56. Here's the wall. I'm getting cranky, it's humid and I'm hot. My breathing is heavier. I wish it would rain instead of spritz. Three miles suddenly seems like a very long distance. I do the math in my head. Even if I slow to a 10-minute-mile pace, I'll come in at 93 minutes. This would still be a great result for me. I try to slow my running to a comfortable level. There isn't one.

8th mile marker: 9:50. Bad, bad, bad. I walk the water station. I am so winded I decide to keep walking until I catch my breath. It takes at least two blocks, probably three. I start running again, slowly.

9th mile marker: ? I'm too disgusted with myself for walking to look at my watch. I know my hoped-for sub-90-minute race is gone. I am, however, still on pace to make excellent time, even if this mile is insanely slow. I took off the visor at the beginning of this mile. I thought it would mean my hair would flop into my face. It doesn't, so I toss the hat by the side of the road. Should have done this eight miles ago. I walk the water station, but I run the rest. I pick up speed to get from the Naval Yard entrance to the finish line. Where's the finish line? I can't see it, and I need it. Where the hell is it? I finally see it with about .1 mile left. I push hard and cross. I look at my watch: 10:07:56. I find out later my official time is 91 minutes, 11 seconds. Under 92 minutes! More than 11 minutes faster than my previous best. Yay!

I get my medal and make my way toward the gear check bus. I chat with the other people in line. The subject is marathons. The lady behind me is encouraging me to do New York. Right now it's hard to imagine adding 16.2 miles to what I just did, but I know it always feels that way until I actually do it.

I get my gear and food bag. It starts to pour. I want my hat.

Um, Wow

2009-04-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

Periodically I Google myself to see what information about me is out there. I did that today and discovered a few things. First, if you have a Facebook profile, it is the first result that comes up, with a little more information than you think would be available without an open profile. Second, as usual, the state bar and the Legal Writing Instructors Institute are continuing to conspire to provide too much personal data about me on the Internet.

The third discovery stopped me cold. The result shown was for linmark sports, and the page was for Clean Air 5k awards.

I knew I ran the Race for Clean Air well. I was thrilled with the result – 3.1 miles in 26 minutes and 17 seconds. That’s an average pace of 8.29 minutes per mile. I’ve never done any race, ever, in which my pace averaged less than nine minutes per mile. I knew I placed at #366 for the race, out of 1200 participants. Again, I’m not sure I’ve ever cleared the top half of a race before. I checked these results online a few hours after the race. It never occurred to me to check the awards listing. Not back-of-the-pack me.

But there it was, about the fourth or fifth entry down of my Google results. Awards. I clicked on it. For each age/gender division, there are three winners and two honorable mentions. My division, women 35-39, had the first three winners listed and me in the number four spot. I assumed there were only six or so women running in this division until I looked up its size: 51. I placed fourth out of 51. If this race were four months from now, I would have won an award in the 40-44 division.

I’m beyond astonished at this. I’ve always been the lumbering girl in the back who runs just to participate. I don’t actually win. Who is this new me and where did she come from? Man, I freaking love Google.

No Cracking Up!

2009-04-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

Spring race season is upon us! It actually began in March, but my first race of the season is this coming Saturday. The Race for Clean Air is a nice little 5k along West River/MLK Drive (or is it Kelly? I can never remember). The following Friday evening I will do the four-mile out-and-back party run (Kelly Drive to a bar). And then the big behemoth: The Broad Street Run. This is ten miles of scenic delights for which I’ve been training like crazy over the past four months.

When I say that I have been training like crazy, the insanity is a literal reference. I have made a lot of progress, and I am deeply paranoid about protecting it. I’m running as many miles per week as I did to train for the marathon, but I’ve pushed myself to get faster and faster. I have a new ability to run better than I ever have before. That ability is like a fragile little egg nearing hatching, and I am the mother bird perched on top of it chirping furiously at any threats. An example: at Passover dinner, my poor brother-in-law innocently backed up his chair over my toe. Was I magnanimous and forgiving of this purely unintended and ultimately harmless mistake? Nope. After my hugely theatrical yelp, I shot him death rays from my eyes through the remainder of dinner, all the while hissing “Broad Street Run” under my breath.

The basis for my fear is simple. When it comes right down to it, my progress at this year’s Broad Street Run is now mostly out of my hands. I’m trained. I’m ready. I’m worried. This list of things that could ruin the race dances through my head. I could have a bicycle crash, like the one that kept me out of last year’s race. I could sprain my extremely weak ankle. It could be hot and humid on race day, conditions that destroy me. Even the threat of thunderstorms that morning will impair my run, and could keep me out of the race entirely. Sadly, I’m not even trying to get into the top half of the 16,000 expected participants. I just want to shave a few minutes off my best time.

So, I’m nuts. I’ve let my leisure, supposedly stress-reducing activity utterly unnerve me. I can’t even imagine what a wreck I’ll be if I run New York in November. Oy vey.

Semi-Sweet

2009-04-07T10:55:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Slothville. As promised, I did all of the 32 miles of running I had planned for last week. I should be feeling fit and happy. I do not, and the problem isn't lack of exercise. It's chocolate. Large quantities of chocolate. Embarrassing quantities of chocolate.

To say I have a sweet tooth is the understatement of the ages. I love all sweets -- cookies, cakes, jelly beans, marshmallows, hard candies. And at the very pinnacle is chocolate. I am absolutely, utterly, completely obsessed with chocolate in all its lovely forms. Drinking chocolate, fudge, mocha coffee drinks, brownies, cakes, icing, the range of straight chocolate all the way from Hershey's Milk to 70+% artisan bars -- it's all good. I can even find use for the bastard cousin that is white chocolate. I am extremely well educated on all of these varieties. I have strong opinions of each, ranging from yum to angels have appeared, and they're singing. It is my long-held dream to open a chocolate shop here in Philly, so I can derive a living from being a chocolate guru.

Combining this obsession with a profound lack of self control means I should never be left alone in the house with more than an ounce of the stuff. The only willpower I am capable of demonstrating is not buying it in the first place. Once I have ownership, game over. This week, however, is Passover, which means I am baking numerous items that require semi-sweet chips. I bought the first bag and ate the whole thing before I even broke out the pans. I bought a second larger bag that was supposed to be a sufficient size for all of my Passover baking needs. "Supposed to be" is the key phrase in the preceding sentence. I need a 12-step program.

So, despite running 32 miles last week, I am a big pile of flab. Ever see a defensive lineman grab a fumbled ball, run it in for a touchdown and then need oxygen for the rest of the game? That's how I felt on my Sunday long run. Which I celebrated completing with a Snickers bar.

Lazy Days

2009-03-29T18:13:00.000-07:00

I haven't been updating the blog because I have free time. It is the paradox that defines me; the more availability I have, the less I do. It's easy for me to run 30 miles a week, update the blog and still get my laundry done when I'm working 70 hours a week. When I'm off from work, however, I can only manage to sit on the couch, eat junk food with messy hair all the while wondering what I'm going to wear tomorrow because nothing's clean.

I've run five miles this week. All week. Happily, there is the handy concept of "recovery time," which allows you to back off for a short period while you're in training so as to give your body some time to heal. I've made an ex post facto declaration that this week was a recovery week. I'm ignoring the more inconvenient facets of the recovery concept, i.e., that it's really meant for people training at least a few hours a day and that you should cross-train rather prop your feet up on the sofa while munching on Cadbury Cream Eggs.

Tomorrow morning, I start fresh. I really mean it.

Red Light, Green Light

2009-03-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

My long weekend runs over the past few months have all followed essentially the same route. I run from my office at 17th and Market to the Art Museum, and then I follow some variation of the Kelly Drive loop. Once I'm on Kelly, of course, I'm on a trail, and I only have to stop when the non-Kelly regulars send their dogs/kids/skateboards/scooters/bikes/strollers/streetsigns (?) directly into my path without looking. Kelly can be a particularly annoying obstacle course, but it's worth it to avoid street lights.

This is especially true for me at the moment, because I currently am suffering the wrath of the red lights. My street light karma sucks. For the past few months, every time I run to or from the Art Museum, every single time I approach a light, it turns red. Sometimes it seems it doesn't even have a yellow in between the green and red, it just sees me and automatically seethes red.

I have been trying to figure out how I offended the Philadelphia street light grid (not sure yet whether this condition is local or national). I suspect it's from my bicycle rides. It's not that I don't respect the red light. I do, but I don't see the point waiting for it to turn green to go. I do slow down, and I certainly yield to traffic that has the right of way. Is this really so wrong? I don't mean offense, I'm simply trying to get to work.

Actually, I am normally a staunch defender of the lighting system. I am always helpfully reminding drivers, in very direct language that leaves no room for confusion, of the exact purpose of a green light. I probably use the phrase "GREEN means GO!!! M@#@@+%!R" more often than "excuse me." It is sad that rather than receiving commendation for this defense of the system, the lords of lighting give me retribution.

To the street lights of the world: I appreciate the vital role you play in regulating the traffic system. Thank you. Now can I get down the parkway uninterrupted?

Drunk Dodging

2009-03-17T09:23:00.001-07:00

It was the Saturday before St. Patrick’s Day, late in the afternoon, and I was headed out for my long run. My route was from 16th and Market, down the Parkway and a full Kelly Drive loop. A lovely 10.5 miles in great running weather – high 40s, overcast, no wind. Of course I was dressed wrong. I think I will finally figure out proper winter layering after spring settles in for real.

I began seeing them immediately – the St. Patrick’s Day revelers. To be fair, most weren’t intoxicated yet, but they all had their game face on. Attired in a combination of slutty/trendy/comfort clothing, with a skip in their step and bright eyes that said “I’m going to get plastered tonight,” they were ready for their evening out.

I love/hate the drinkers when I’m running. My New Year’s Day tradition is to go for a run that takes me from South Philly across the Mummers Parade route, so drunk dodging is a sport I know well. I love them because, let’s face it, they’re funny, particularly the ones stumbling around like toddlers getting off the tilt-a-whirl. This is far more interesting than the collection of street signs and sidewalk cracks I usually see. I really love the ones wearing face paint, Mardi Gras beads and antennae with fuzzy shamrock tips who look at me as if I’m the one who’s strange. When they notice me, that’s the typical reaction, a quizzical “why would you do that rather than drinking?” look.

This brings me to the ones I hate. Ever notice that the drunkards who are truly amusing to the sober are the ones who don’t think they are being comical, and the ones who think they are hilarious are funny only to people who are similarly trashed? You will if you have to run past them only to have some Einstein yell out “look, I’m running too” and start to jog along side you to the hysterical reaction of his deeply impaired friends. Also, let’s face it, folks on the other side of six pints of beer and eight Jagermeister shots are not very mannerly. They step right in front of you, they hog the whole sidewalk without moving out of the way, they blow smoke in your face as you’re running past. Plus, my olfactory senses could do without the combination of alcohol, cigarettes and puke when I’m already gasping for air.

It’s all good, though, especially since I think I found the perfect compromise to this. Next month I am participating in a Friday night race that actually ends at a bar. I get to be a runner and a dodgee all in the same evening.

How It All Began

2009-03-13T13:06:00.000-07:00

I’m Jill and I’m a runner. A slow runner. I was not born to run. As a kid, I was hopeless at anything athletic. I was the last kid picked for every team, and I flunked the Presidential Physical Fitness test every year it was given. The only race I could win was a cookie-eating contest .

I got into fitness around the time I turned 30. I was doing activities I liked: weight lifting, rowing, cycling. But I had trouble keeping the workout going when I got too uncomfortable. I needed a way to overcome this threshold. Running was perfect. I hated it and had no speck of natural ability. I figured that if I could teach myself to do something I despised from the very first step, then I would be good with the stuff I actually liked.

It evolved slowly for me. At first, I was miserable every run. Then, I started mostly tolerating them. After that, every once in a while, I would have a run I actually enjoyed. I started participating in some 5-k races, bringing up the rear and scrounging for whatever bananas remained at the obligatory food tent. Even in the smallest races, I almost always timed it poorly and had to walk a bit to finish.

So one day I am riding my bicycle to work when I hit a bump in the road and get ejected quite handily from my seat. I’d like to say the damage to my ankle wasn’t exacerbated by the pull-on high heel boots I was wearing, nor that I had to yank them off because I refused to cut them. Whether it was because of the fall itself or the fashion gods, I had a high ankle sprain. No running for at least six weeks.

A strange thing happened. Every time I saw a runner trot by, I was jealous. I told myself that this was because I hated my crutches and I was feeling increasingly out of shape. But the runners would bop past, all springy and bouncy and enjoying the outdoor breezes in their hair. For the first time, I realized I wanted to run not to achieve some other purpose, but simply because I wanted to run.

Since then, I’ve completed too many runs between 5-k and 10-k to count, the Broad Street Run (10 miles) three times, five half marathons and three full marathons. The first two marathons I had to walk a lot to get to the finish. The third one, Philly this past November, was my breakthrough. I ran the whole thing. I had to back off my pace a bit for the last five miles, but I did not walk. I’ve overcome so many injuries that the PTs at Novacare just shake their heads when they see me coming. I used to be shocked when I had an enjoyable run. Now I’m surprised by the bad ones.

I’m hungry to see what I can really do. How fast can I get? I’ll never get a shoe deal, but maybe, just maybe, I can elevate myself to the middle of the pack, where there is a plethora of yellow bananas to choose from at the end of a race. Simple goals, maybe, but not so when you consider where I began.

Magic Treadmill

2009-03-11T17:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the magic treadmill gave me a gift. The magic treadmill exists among the back row of that particular equipment at my gym. There are the regular treadmills in the front row, normal but with the nice added feature of a fan built into the dashboard. The back row units, however, are special. Every time your foot hits the surface, the machine happily springs you back into the air with very little added assistance from you. The result is that you can go much farther and faster than you could have imagined, and run way better than you can actually do in real life. Less Rush Limbaugh, more Usain Bolt.

There is one particular treadmill in this row that shines. Perhaps the calibration is off, it is in a well-ventilated section of the gym or it could be the recipient of a spell cast by some personal trainer sorceress. Whatever the cause, the thing is unbelievable. According to its read-out, I am really, really fast. I know that, in fact, I am not really, really fast, but I do adore the ghost in the machine.

Some background, first. I took two days off of training before yesterday’s run. Lately, I have been running five days a week, with a rest day both before and after a long run on the weekend. This means that I never take two days in a row off. Last week, I had my fifth day, and longer run (eight miles) on Saturday, so Sunday was a rest day. I was set to begin my work-out week on Monday, but, in the immortal words of Greg Brady, something suddenly came up. I took the day off. I was extra rested heading into Tuesday’s run. Still, at the beginning, I wasn’t sure how it would go. I have been extremely tired lately because work has been insane, and I was not in a running kind of mood. I started out with my warm-up mile. In itself this is ridiculous. Outside, my warm-up mile is 10:30 minutes. Magic Treadmill? Eight minutes, forty-five seconds. Thirty six minutes later I finished my run. Five and a half miles in 44:45. Four and a half miles at an average pace of eight minutes per mile.

I am not an eight-minute-mile person. I am a 10-minute-mile girl. If I push myself, maybe nine and a half. Real runners do eight-minute miles. People who lumber along with the sole hope of not keeling over during the run don’t.

I should feel great about this. I think, however, that the magic treadmill may be not so much a great motivator as it is a Nigerian prince offering me a rare chance at a guaranteed lucrative investment. It whispers enticingly that, yes, I can run the Broad Street Run in under 85 minutes, even though my fastest previous time is 102 minutes. I can break a two hour half-marathon. I can, gulp, do the impossible: qualify for the Boston Marathon. I just have to give it more time. I have to hire a nutritionist and a coach to perfect my form and protect its fragile motor from my heavy foot strikes. It beseeches me to sacrifice my remaining wisps of spare time, my love of junk food, several pairs of running shoes and a few toenails to the alter of running glory.

I am not fully in its grasp. I still have my weekly outdoor long run, which serves as a remarkably effective reminder that I am still a back-of-the-packer.