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…”
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Yuck Chronicles
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Insanity Loves Company
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.
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Since you didn’t ask
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!
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!
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
To Marathon or Not to Marathon
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.
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.
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?
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Drunk Dodging
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.
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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
How It All Began
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Magic Treadmill
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.
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.
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