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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Long Boring Race Report
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.
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.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Um, Wow
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
No Cracking Up!
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Semi-Sweet
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.
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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Lazy Days
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.
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.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Red Light, Green Light
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?
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?
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