The Best Race of My Life

A little more than five years ago, I looked at my watch as I was nearing the 10-mile marker of a half marathon. I remember vividly how astonished I was to realize that if I could just hold on to the end, I would finish in about 2 hours and 15 minutes. Crossing the finish line at 2:15:14 (a 10:20 pace), I was jubilant. I never thought I could finish a half marathon in less than 2 hours and 20 minutes. In my mind, I was still the lumbering girl who waddled across the finish line at her first marathon in a less-than-blazing 5 hours and 47 minutes (age 33, year 2004). A few months later, I completed my first half in 2 hours and 24 minutes, and I was intensely proud of that.

Yesterday, at age 42, I achieved my two biggest and longest-held running goals: a sub-2 hour half marathon and a sub-90 minute 10-miler, both in the same race. My previous best times for both of these distances were accomplished in 2009, the year I turned 40. At the Broad Street Run, I finished 10 miles in 91 minutes and 11 seconds. I crossed the finish line at the Philadelphia Distance Run in 2:02:53. At the time I thought I was close enough to get the stats I wanted fairly easily. However, despite intensive training, rather than getting closer to my hoped-for times, I slipped further away over the next few years. While I was still getting faster in 5ks, I was beginning to think it likely that I had peaked at distance running, and my sub-2/sub-90 dreams were out of my grasp. After all, I keep reading and hearing about the physical decline that happens as you move through your 40s and beyond.

I signed up for the Shamrock half-marathon feeling like it was my last shot to go for that sub-2. The cooler temperatures of a March race suit me. It’s also a flat course, and a race that I had heard terrific things about. I also signed up for a 10-miler two weeks after Shamrock to go for my sub-90.

My friend and fellow DetermiNation committee member, Ashley, also had her sights set on a sub-2 half marathon at Shamrock. So Saturday morning we loaded up her car with expensive gas and healthy snacks for the 5+ hour drive down to Virginia Beach.

In Maryland, an omen came. We were pulled over for speeding. The state trooper looked at the PA plates, demanded license and registration, and we resigned ourselves to a speeding ticket. Boo! He walked back a few minutes later, handed Ashley her paperwork and said we were getting a warning, no fine, no points. We thanked him profusely, promised responsible law-abiding driving and happily returned to our trek. Yay!

Even with our new dedication to obeying the speed limit, we made good time to Virginia and collected our race items at the expo. Upon checking in at the hotel, we learned that there was a (really nice!) free shuttle to and from the race, that the hotel offered free breakfast early enough for the runners to eat and digest before the race, and that we would not have to check out until 2pm. We went down to the beach for a bit before a really good Italian dinner, and then it was time to rest for the race.

Race-morning weather was perfect. Low- to mid-50s, no wind, overcast and a little humid. Ashley and I went our separate ways at the start line (we both prefer to race alone) and waited for our wave to be released. I had a sub-2 race plan. Run the first mile between 9:15 and 9:20; run the second and third miles at 9:10, run a 9:05 pace through mile 10 and then hold on for dear life. I am forever warning people not to start a distance race too fast. So when I passed the first mile marker and realized I ran it in 8:45, I thought I was doomed. I slowed for the next few miles, but I was still under a 9-minute pace. However, I felt weirdly good. At the 6-mile mark, I looked at my watch and saw 53 minutes had elapsed. I decided at that point to revise my goals. I was going for the sub-90 10-miler, and if that meant I fell apart in the last three miles and missed the sub-2, I would be ok with that.

I continued to feel good through mile 8, which is traditionally where the wheels start to fall off for me in this kind of race. Mile 9 was tougher, but I remembered how close I was to my new goal, and I hung on to capture it. I crossed the 10-mile marker in 89 minutes, more than two minutes faster than my best time.

Mile 11 hurt. I heard a lot of runners in my vicinity voicing their desire for that sub-2 goal, and a few people mentioned at the 10-mile marker that we only had to do a 31-minute 5k to achieve it. Near the end of mile 11, the sun popped out, and it got warm. Boo! But, magically, just a few minutes later it ducked back behind a mass of clouds, and stayed there until almost exactly the moment I crossed the finish line. Yay! That last 5k was hard and slower, but I knew what I wanted and I was going to fight for it.

Approaching the finish line, I had that combination of intense suffering and ecstasy that can only happen when you are having an outstanding race. I saw the finish clock from a distance, and knew for certain that not only would I easily get my sub-2, but if I ran the last bit hard, my clock time (in races unless you are elite you always start at least a few minutes after the race clock is initiated; you actual time is chip time) would be under two hours. Sure enough: clock time 1:59:52, chip time 1:58:05. I stumbled forward happily chirping “big PR!” to the nice volunteers who gave me my medal, a race hoodie, race hat, fluids, pretzels and a shamrock cookie (this event has great swag).

A beaming Ashley found me and announced that her clock time was 1:55. We found out that her chip time was 1:53:27, a nine-minute PR for her. We squealed and hugged, and went into the food tent on the beach to say hi to the Virginia D-Nation folks, who gave us peanut-butter sandwiches and cupcakes, and then collected our beef stew and Yuengling beers from the race volunteers and went to hang on the beach.

A couple of stats that are just killing me right now: My overall placement was 2020 out of 7894 runners. I finished 112 out of 738 women in my age group, and 787 out of 4894 women overall. I beat a majority of the men in the 30-34 age range, which I think of as the most competitive group.

I wanted this. I wanted this deeply, and for years. I worked hard, and I got it. Me, the little chubby kid who couldn’t do anything that didn’t involve a pen. So this was a perfect race, the best race of my life. At least, so far.

Overprogrammed

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

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?

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

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

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?

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.