After working for (and getting!) my BQ all spring, in June I started shifting focus to triathlon and that big scary multisport monstrosity at the end of the summer: Ironman Chattanooga.

To ease back into having to do three friggin’ sports in the same race I hit the Colonial Beach Sprint on July 9th in the eponymous Colonial Beach, VA. A bunch of friends and Speed Sherpa and DC Tri Club teammates were doing the Rev3 Williamsburg Half Iron and Olympic races on the 10th, so I convinced one of them – the endlessly impressionable Chris – to come to Colonial Beach with me first. Then I went with him to Williamsburg where he raced and I volunteered. (More on that in another post. In short, it was awesome and everyone should race-volunteer at least once a season.)

My last tri of 2015 was the Giant Acorn Sprint where I snagged 3rd in my AG (2nd on the bike and 1st on the run and also there was swimming) so I was definitely entertaining a play for another podium finish. I’ve been on the bike a lot lately and I’ve been having a strong run season between a 5k win and my BQ, so in a small sprint it seemed doable again. The swim is still terrible no matter what I do but as the other two (longer) legs get stronger I’m able to make up for my water-flailing more.

With a 6:50am start time on Saturday, Chris and I decided to drive down to Colonial Beach Friday night, while some other less 3am-averse teammates opted to drive down race day. It had been hell finding a hotel. Just about everything in the small “beach” town was either a bed and breakfast or a Norman Bates homage. There was one regular-looking hotel, the River Edge Inn, that appeared to be really close to the race, but of course it didn’t have online reservations. So I had called. And called. And called and called. No answering machine. On the 9th or 10th call someone finally picked up and I was able to book the night. I’d been surprised to get a room as I called so close to  race day, but then again they really made me work for that rez so maybe some people gave up. I had really earned it.

We got to the hotel a little after 9 on Friday night. This city girl was a tad freaked out by the dark, rural, “Make America Great Again” drive out, and I can’t pretend that the fought-for River Edge Inn was 4-star (unless the scale is 1-25).  I was really questioning the decision to drive down the night before when we got into our dingy room, where the pillows were pretty much construction paper-filled ziplock bags. Then I pulled out the race info to figure out where we were headed in the morning, only to realize we were already there. The race was literally happening on hotel grounds. My planned 4:30 wake-up inched back to 4:50 with the realization that I just had to walk out the door and I’d be at transition. Suddenly the arts and crafts pillows weren’t looking so bad!

Then…I woke up  to my 4:50am alarm with a pulled neck so painful I had to work to convince myself that it wasn’t meningitis. Other than the shitty pillow whiplash, packet pickup and race prep were easy. I felt pretty calm (for me?) about the race, and my bowels seemed only slightly aware that it was a race morning – they forced me into the (no-line!) portas only once!

The best part of the pre-race activities was getting to meet some of my new teammates! With my new coach comes a new tri crew in the form of team Speed Sherpa.  (More below.) They added a sense of community and support to an already-easy morning.

The morning only got better as we headed down to the beach start. There were dogs everywhere! I resisted the urge to touch each one (I’m like Monk and surfaces [ok will anyone get that reference?]) until GREAT DANE ALERT! His name was Zeus and it was (as it always is) love at first sight (smush). His owners were kind enough to permit me some Zeus cuddles and face kisses before the race started. I even got some serious slobbers which I didn’t notice until I went to start my Garmin. (Good thing it’s water proof!)

With Zeus’ sloppy blessing I got back to the start line. As a small race there were only four waves. Women 39 and under (still me for a few years!) went out third.

The swim took place in the Potomac – a fact I did not know until the night before because I have a mental block when it comes to geography outside of DC.  (Not to worry – it was a much cleaner section than what we swim [when the swim isn’t cancelled for sewage] at Nation’s, and all the parts per billion cleaner than the Hudson will be in two weeks.)  At a balmy 83 degrees we were most definitely not wetsuit-legal, and in fact the water was warmer than the air at that point. The river looked pretty calm and I didn’t feel anxious at all as we waded in to wait for the start gun.

I found a spot in the middle but further towards the back than the front of the pack as I always do with a beach start. I know I’m not competing with the fast swimmers and if I hang back a bit at the begining I can avoid most of the fist-fighting as people jockey for position. Once people spread out a bit over the first hundred meters I can pass folks to usually finish in the top third (or sometimes just half) of the pack.

(As I write this I am wondering if Coach Josh is going to tell me my very passive swim strategy needs a facelift.) Either way that’s how Saturday played out. Within a couple minutes and with minimal foot-to-face contact I found some space to put my head down and go.

My (only?) strength in swimming is I’ve drilled stroke stroke breathe into my mind and body so that I can hunker down into the rhythm no matter what. The first 300 meters went by easily and I rounded the first turn feeling like I could keep going that way for forever. As I swam left and across the current though that changed.

Swimming downstream and along the shore I had been oblivious to the rolling waves that were coming from I have no idea where. Turning into and then against the current to return to transition I became painfully aware though. It became very difficult to stroke stroke inhale – and bilateral breathing actually became a liability. The waves were rolling out in such a way that when I tried to breathe to the right I got a mouthful of Potomac. I switched up my autopilot stroke stroke breathe and added some extra sighting in – both to keep from getting pushed off-course by the waves and to give myself a break when the breakers got too big. On the way out I’d tried to think about the form improvements I’ve been working on, but on the way back in that just all kind of fell apart. At around 19 minutes and 2:15/100 my swim time was disappointing, but I’d passed a decent number of people in my wave and the wave ahead of me so coming out of the water I felt I’d put up a decent fight.

After a good-not-great T1 (I’ve improved but still need a lot of T1 work) I headed out on a pretty flat and fast 14 mile course. I’ve been getting outside on the bike a lot the past month and was feeling pretty secure as I got going. I passed a few folks in the first couple miles and could see my teammate Justin crushing it maybe 200 meters ahead of me. I wanted to get closer but my shifting was feeling a little off.  I had started at too low a gear and kept shifting higher to get some speed, but I felt like I wasn’t really catching the road.  I was passing people and making good time but I wasn’t getting the speed I should have on such a course.

Just before mile 5 there was a sharp almost u-turn. When I knew it was coming up I looked at my Garmin and saw I was at 4.37 miles at 14:27 minutes. I felt like I should have been pushing 21-23 mph but still thought to myself, that’s not too bad for the first bike leg of the season.

I should really know better than to self-congratulate during a race.

As I approached the sharp turn I began to brake, and that’s when the wheels literally came off. Well, just the one. When I tapped the brakes my entire back wheel popped out of the dropouts. Suddenly the back end of Koopa Troop just fell out from under me. I tried to kick my feet out but only got free on the right side and fell left. (Not complaining – I would prefer to fall left any day!)

It was a very strange sensation. I knew instantly that it wasn’t a popped tire – it was too sudden and sharp a drop. I had slowed enough that when I hit the ground it was more an ego-bruiser than actual bruiser. I managed to avoid any road rash and for that I am thankful.

I am also thankful for the incredible volunteers who were stationed there to warn people about the sharp turn. They quickly scooped me out of the way of oncoming traffic – both race and regular traffic – we flipped Koopa Troop over and got to work. He was a mess.

We tried to fit the skewer back into the dropouts but couldn’t get it to go in straight and I ended up having to take the skewer off and apart, adjusting the springs on each end. Then we saw that the rear brake was stuck and the calipers weren’t letting us slide the wheel back into position. Once we had dealt with that and I reskewered the dang thing, we finally got it back in place. I had been especially fortunate that one of the volunteers used to work with bikes and figured out the array of issues faster than I would have on my own.

The volunteers were split over whether I should keep going. One gentleman said if it were him he’d give it a go, but he followed that up by noting his love of taking risks. I’m a nervous biker, so this wasn’t entirely comforting, but it felt really sad to drop out less than 5 miles in. I decided to try to keep going but agreed with my impromptu pit crew that I would take the next couple miles slow. I said, “I’m already way out of the running to podium, so I just want to finish!”

I thought I’d be more bummed about the setback but I actually felt totally at peace with it.  I waited for a break in race traffic and pulled back out onto the road.

Then I dropped my chain. I got back off and adjusted. I spun the wheels and took extra time making sure I was really good to go. At that point what was another 45 seconds? I waited for another break in traffic and finally got back on and rounded the sharp turn to mile 5.

I hadn’t paused my Garmin, and a few seconds after I remounted it buzzed to mark a five mile “lap:” 24:50. My breakdown had eaten almost ten minutes.

More good bike luck: As soon as I’d gotten back on I’d hit that almost U onto what turned out to be a very uncomfortable road. It was technically “paved,” but it was that cheap, coarse pavement that feels no different than a gravel road when you’re rocking skinny wheels and a 10lb frame.  Between the bumpy terrain and uncertain security of my back wheel, I took the next few miles very slowly. I got passed left and left and only managed to overtake a couple folks on hybrids.

Around mile 8 we turned off the way-beaten path onto a little climb and a road that felt like butter. I figured my set-up had withstood three rocky miles and would probably hold up so I finally picked up the pace. It felt great to crank it up that little hill and start passing a couple folks who’d had no real business overtaking me!

And at least a bit of actual good news: in putting my wheel and chain back on I’d fixed whatever was going on with my shifting. I was finally able to get into a high enough gear to feel the road underneath me. With Koopa Troop back in business I settled into my aero bars and enjoyed a little speed back to transition. A few low rollers allowed me to get in front of a couple more folks in the last few miles, massaging my ego a little bit. I finished with a total bike time of 55:26. I wish I could have race organizers add an asterisk there to let everyone know what had gone wrong! (The mortification of internet results that live on forever!)

I had a strong (for me) 90 second second transition and headed out on the run. Ahhhh the run! Where I earn my self-worth. And my brunch!

But there was a hang-up here too: I hadn’t really run since M2B marathon in May. I had taken about 10 days off after that race, and then had started to feel the oh-so-goddamn-familiar pre-stress fracture throbbing in my left shin. So for all of June Josh took running out of the training. I had done 10 minutes after teaching spin the day before Colonial Beach, and while it had felt good to run, an 8:30 min/mile had felt fast.

I didn’t think about any of that and just went out as hard as I could. It was only 8:30am, but it was already solidly in the mid 80s and the 5k course was an out and back in direct sunlight. Within a quarter mile I was feeling rough. Glancing at my wrist I saw I was running a 7:10. With conditioned legs that should have been the right pace, but I just could not hold it after 5 weeks of no running. I let myself slow to a 7:40, and while it was uncomfortable, I was able to hold it through the rest of the race for a 23:47.

That was at least 90 seconds slower than a time I would have been legitimately happy about, but it was getting hot and there had been truly no shelter from the sun anywhere on the run. The only bit of  relief came from a very nice man who lived on the run route and who had pulled his garden hose out to the street to spray us as we ran by. (Also he had a black lab who I loved. Obviously.) Oh and to be clear, he asked our permission – he wasn’t a hose-weilding NIMBY.

I clocked in an overall time of 1:43:00. Absolutely not the numbers I had wanted to put up, but once again, I was really fine with it. It was just a fun way to switch gears from marathon running to triathlon and to get some good training done in a race situation.

I was especially fine with it when I saw the times of the women who won my AG. Even with 10-12 minutes off the bike and 2 minutes  off the run I would have been battling for 4th or 5th and not a podium spot. For a small race there were some damn speedy ladies on the course!

I still finished in the top half – 7th out of 18 (See? Small race!) – and even with a slower pace I passed 4 women in my division during the run. (One of whom I’d passed as we turned into the finishing chute. I saw that ’34’ on her calf and I just had to pass her in the last push. She finished 8 seconds after me and I don’t feel even a little bad!)

Oh and speaking of speedy ladies – or ladettes (or girls if we’re sticking with actual words) – the overall winners were two 14 year olds and a 17 year old! There were so many kids absolutely destroying it. I wasn’t just inspired but felt like I was witnessing history (or maybe the future?) as those girls are future stars of the sport for sure. There were also whole families racing together. I talked (gasped) briefly to a woman whose teenage son and daughter had just passed her. She was absolutely beaming. And also sweating really profusely because it was disgusting out. But still under the perspiration you could see how proud she was.

The absolute best part of the day was that I got to race for the first time with my new team, Speed Sherpa. (Ok the team isn’t new. I’m new to them.) I constantly rave about the tri/run community and these people epitomize the best of it. Out of the Speed Sherpa squad racing Colonial Beach I had only met Madi before – and I met her because without even knowing me she showed up to surprise me in one of my spins, and followed it up with some [solidcore] pain. Race morning I got to know teammates Justin, (check out his recap here) Bill, and Federico. Each greeted me with a 5:30am smile and then cheered me to the finish line. I’m sure a big part of my pre-swim calm was thanks to their company – especially Madi’s as we were in the same wave. (Oh and thanks to the Great Dane slobber kisses. Those are like xanax for me.)

So yeah a mixed start to tri season 2016, but mainly positive. Slow in terms of the swimming, the biking, and the running, but hanging with the team more than makes up for it. And for years I’ve been dreading an inevitable break down on the bike. Now it’s happened, and it was ok! I still need to learn my mechanics more and practice tire changing, but I’m not as intimidated about that aspect of the sport any more. And given my bike journey over the past two years, it was huge for me to fall in a race and get back on. Especially knowing now that I was never really in podium contention, I’m actually happy it happened: the confidence I gained was worth exponentially more than the 10 or so minutes I lost. (That being said I really hope the wheels don’t fall off in Chattanooga – figuratively or otherwise.)

First, let me just say, SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! I’m going to Boston! (As a Yankees fan, not something I’m usually so excited about.)

On Sunday, May 29th, also known as the day before our first wedding anniversary, Scott and I ran the awesometastic Mountains 2 Beach Marathon in Ojai/Ventura California. This was my third full marathon and my first of two A races for 2016. And given the injures that have sidelined my last few autumns, it was also my first real go at a Boston qualification.

While Ironman looms large a few months away the last few months have been very run-focused to get me over that finish line with plenty of buffer below the 3:35 women 34 and under threshold. My goal was to come in under 3:30, and I am so freaking excited to report that beat that goal by several minutes. I wanted a healthy cushion between my time and the Boston Athletic Association (BAA) minimum qualifier, because every year varies on how fast you actually have to be to qualify.

This was my 3rd full 26.2, but also my 2nd time running this particular race. In 2013, my friend Kim (she is definitely a costar of this blog and my running journey!) convinced me to sign-up sort of on a whim for M2B 2014. Being a fabulous and fast event, it sells out in the fall so you have to pull the registration trigger early. Kim (who actually lives in California) had chosen this race to try for her own BQ (spoiler: she nailed it) and as I was going to be training for my first IM that season (spoiler: I failed it) I thought I oughtta do my own first ever full marathon before I tried to tackle one after swimming and biking 114.4 miles.

I spent the few months before M2B 2014 IM-training and not really marathon-focused. A few weeks before the race I realized I’d never in my life run more than a half marathon and started ramping up my weekend mileage. Not kidding, I just started doing longer Saturday runs to prepare. Eight days before my first marathon I did 17 miles up and down Lake Front in Chicago and declared myself “ready.” I went into that first marathon with zero idea what to expect or what I was capable of. I set a vague sub-4 goal but felt like I wouldn’t be unhappy with any finish time. I turned in a 3:41 and was ecstatic. It’s a fast course with an overall a decline in elevation and a very fast and small pool of runners. (No wasting energy jockeying for position or zig-zagging around slower runners here!)

Back in the fall of 2015 as I was figuring out what the 2016 race season would look like, I knew I wanted two things: to finally complete a full Ironman, and to qualify for the 2017 Boston Marathon. It was easy to choose the Sept. 25th Ironman Chattanooga: fast swim, close enough to drive, DC Tri Club would be going. So I knew I needed a spring marathon. M2B was my first thought, and when I looked up the 2016 schedule, I saw that it would take place one day before what would be Scott and my first wedding anniversary. Most people would probably see this as a negative and look for a different race. To me it was a sign that this was my race. I would just have to convince Scott…

Yeah I don’t actually have some great side-splitting story on how I convinced my husband that the best way to celebrate our first year of marriage would be to fly across the country on a holiday weekend to run 26.2 miles. He’s just a great combination of really supportive and really suggestive I guess. I got him on board in the short fall window before the race sells out and that was that!

Fast-forwarding, the last couple months of training have been swim-bike-RUN. Been getting in my multisport work but prioritizing the running. Training peaked two weeks before race day with some really painful two-a-days which left me drained, sore, and terrified that I was not ready. Over my two weeks of taper as I took stress off my body I let my mind run wild with it. And my gut. My pre-race tummy drama is pretty prolific on this blog (more on that to come. Obviously.) but it’s usually limited to morning-of issues. For a full ten days before M2B, every time I thought about the impending go at a BQ my stomach turned (sometimes audibly!) leaving me nauseous and worse. Bottom line: I was stupid worked up over this race (recognizing that this is ultimately just a hobby and oh my god calm the eff down, Liz. [In related news, poor Scott.])

We flew west bright and early Saturday morning, and thanks to the east to west time change, landed at LAX around 10am. We battled a monstrous Avis line and headed north to Ventura. Along the way we stopped at a Dick’s Sporting Goods to pick up an ungodly amount of Gu, shot bloks, beans, and Clif bars (and yes I had also packed several pounds of the stuff so no this was probably not necessary.) The only thing I forgot was salt tabs. Which were the only thing I really needed. We then ate surprisingly good Asian (no, the restaurant did not have a more specific denomination than that) in a strip mall next to Dick’s and got to Ventura a little before 3pm.

Since we were early for check-in, we tried driving to packet pick-up only to be totally confused (and a little frightened) by the set-up at the Ventura County Fairgrounds where the expo was supposed to be. At said Fairgrounds we found a creepy circus – complete with trailers with giant clown faces painted on them (aka my nightmare) –  in a parking lot outside a windowless casino*. There was zero signage about the race and we didn’t want to pay for parking at the sad creepy circus-casino when we could park for free at our hotel a half-mile away. Silver lining: we’d wasted enough time driving around the worst part of Ventura that we were able to check in, change, and head back out on foot in search of the expo.

*Actually it wasn’t even a casino – it was apparently a building where you can watch and bet on horse-racing live on big screens. I grew up working with horses who were rescued off the track (the lucky few who weren’t sent to slaughter houses) and I’m telling you right now that horse racing is disgusting and nothing short of animal abuse. If you watch it at all, you suck. And if you spend your days in a windowless bunker betting on abused animals being run to death hundreds of miles away, well, I hope I never meet you because you’re horrible. End. Scene.

So, running, right?

Turned out packet-pickup was in a bizarre old army base-looking set of (definitely haunted) buildings behind the casino/PETA travesty. After being totally skeeved out by our surroundings getting there, the expo was surprisingly great.  When I ran M2B in 2014 there wasn’t much of an expo, but this year there were lots of booths giving out free (delicious!) samples like acai berry froyo and clif products (my favorite.) And miracle of miracles, they had salt tabs! I bought a giant bottle! And I bought a couple pairs of lock laces. And face sun screen. And anti-blister cream. And an awesome tank top with the names of all my lady run crushes. And I bought all these things from the same booth in separate transactions. If you’ve ever seen The Jerk, my experience was basically this scene.

We walked back to the hotel along the beach on what would be the last push of the race. I opted to skip the 10 minute run Coach Josh had put in my schedule as my right hamstring was twanging a bit and I didn’t want to push it. My stomach was doing plyometrics, I guess getting ready what ever meltdown it was planning for the morning. In my gastro-panic I had a moment of clarity and told Scott I needed Imodium for the morning. I’ve used it a few times in races (and while backpacking through Southeast Asia) it’s always come through.

We spent the next couple hours searching the tiny and quaint (and equal parts charming and scarily-outdated) downtown Ventura for pasta and anti-diarrheal meds. And having successfully located both, we were back in our hotel and in bed by 8:30pm. (The time change really helped – normally I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep that early but our bodies thought it was 11:30 so  sleep actually came when beckoned.)

We got up at 3:45 and as soon as my alarm went off my stomach took it as its cue to pitch a new plyo fit. (Belly burpees!) I ate what I could get down through the nerves – most of a clif bar, half a banana and half a bottle of Nuun. We had signed up for the 5am shuttle to the start line and we had opted to forego gear check. Zipping nutrition into our race belts, I took 30mg of Imodium before we left the hotel at 4:30 – 90 minutes before the race would start.

The shuttle left right as scheduled at 5am . The first batch of Imodium helped but I knew I’d need more right before the gun went off. As soon as we arrived at the start area I raced off the bus and onto a porta potty line. It was 5:30 and I was in the john by 5:50. I took care of business and chugged another 45mg of the blue stuff before finding my corral and pace group.

M2B is a small and fast crowd. So small and fast that there are only three corrals: First is for folks going sub-3:20, second for 3:20-3:40, and the final  wave is anyone going slower than 3:40. I wove my way to the middle of corral two, trying  to locate the 3:28 pace group. I was aiming for 3:29 to be safely far enough below the 3:35 BQ time to actually qualify no matter how fast a year 2016 ends up being. At just a minute under my goal, my plan was to hang with the 3:28 group for as long as I could – hopefully to the last mile or two at which point I figured I could slow up a bit if I needed.

I found the 3:33 group but couldn’t find 3:28. Being a mini-human I had to ask a taller woman if she could see the 3:28 sign. She pointed ahead and said it was about 30 feet in front of us. I was about to get low to try and get there, but the gun went off and corral 1 headed out. Immediately corral 2 started surging forward and my way was blocked. Two minutes later the gun went off for our wave and we were off.

As people started moving and the crowd dispersed I could see the 3:28 sign bobbing along ahead of me – they had probably had a twenty second head-start. I was nervous about stepping on the gas right out the gate but I really didn’t want to abandon my pace group plan so I dashed ahead of the folks around me and fell in a few runners behind the pacer.

Conditions were absolutely perfect. Once I was safely ensconced amidst the group that would be my run-crew for the next few hours, I was able to take a mental step back and assess my picturesque surroundings. Perhaps the fastest thing about M2B is that it is a beautiful course.

M2B begins, as the name would suggest, in the mountains in Ojai. It’s wine country and pony country and it’s lush and the people who live there really care about maintaining their outdoor community. I took it all in and for maybe the 1000th time this year wondered why I had ever left California. (Shhhh. I love you DC!)

On top of the pretty, it was overcast with the perfect chill in the air. Over the first few miles it was even misting. The mist didn’t seem to be coming from the sky but rather just floating around us. It was like the California air wanted us to stay hydrated and cool and comfortable.

And there were animals! We passed horse farms where the alarmed equines trotted along the fence next to us. There was a pasture of bemused (kind of judge-y) donkeys, and even a llama at one point. I stuck my tongue out at him in imitation of the perma-pissy face llamas are always making, and the guy behind me definitely saw it. And yes y’all, (Chandler) I did see a Great Dane at one point and it did totally fluster me. I even yelled, “Great Dane!” over my headphones like a totally normal person.

The first 10k winds a large loop through Ojai and back over the start line before  the course takes us back out of the mountains to Ventura. I followed our pacer and looked at my Garmin just for heart rate and cadence, and when it buzzed at me to let me know another mile had passed. Mile 1 was a very comfortable 7:50 and I thought, damn we are right on track! Mile 2 is all uphill and we dropped to 8:10, at which point I had a little moment of panic (but the Imodium held strong!) Mile 3 took us back down that hill and we crushed a 7:39.

I realized our pacer had every mile pace written on his 3:28 board based on elevation and this made me calm down. At every mile marker I watched him check his Garmin, check his pace chart, and adjust. (Some of you may be reading this [hi mom!] thinking, ‘duh Liz, that’s how a pace group works,’ but I’d never run with one before and was so impressed and grateful to have someone doing the hard work [read: math!] for me.)

Josh had mapped out a race plan for me also – accounting for elevation and wind and with my goals based on heart rate. (Seriously amazing, right?) The first 10k, with its climbing, I was to aim for 160s and under. Even with the hill right off the bat, the perfect, chilly, misty air helped me stay right where I needed to be. There was a little bit more climbing as we ran back through the start line before hitting the first major decline around mile 6.

With the course beginning the descent from mountains to beach (you with me?) my Josh-assigned-goal was to keep it in the 150s. I was skeptical of whether I’d be able to get my BPM down after 6 miles of nerves and a good bit of climbing, but lo and behold he was right with my biometrics yet again. The pace group settled into several very consistent 7:45 miles and I watched as my heart rate ticked down into the low 150s – even dropping to the 140s at places.

At this point I had started my salt tabs regimen; I popped a tablet every 45 minutes or as close to that as the aid stations allowed. Between the salt and the Imodium I was sort of gambling with my stomach using nutrition I don’t train with consistently, but my belly stuck with me. I also carbed up every 30 minutes or so with either gu, beans, or the electrolytes being handed out every 4 miles. Aid stations were two miles apart, and every second one included liquid electrolytes in the form of Fluid Performance. Again, a new one to my tum-tum but it worked out.

I have a rule for myself that you do not pass up on aid station water in races and this was no exception. I could definitely be wrong (I am many times a day) but I think this every two mile frequency was more than at the race in 2014, and it was really welcome. I felt well-hydrated (and well-taken-care-of) the whole race. My only complaint is that, while there were plenty of stations, there were not plenty of volunteers.

In most races (that I’ve done anyway) there are far more volunteers than needed and no matter how many people run through an aid station at once there are always more than enough hands holding out water. Here there were only a handful of folks at each station, so on multiple occasions the folks in front of me grabbed up all the cups being offered. It meant you actually had to go to the aid table yourself and grab cups that way. To do this you have to navigate around the volunteers and either hand-eye coordinate your grab while running (uh-oh) or slow way down. At the second station the man in front of me attempted to employ for the former strategy and ended up plowing down and entire row of cups, which further mucked things up for me, so I opted to slow almost to a halt to grab what I needed. At one station, as I saw it approaching, I tried running ahead of the pace group so I could arrive while volunteers still hand water to hand-off, but this strategy jacked up my heart rate so much that I abandoned it the rest of the race, opting instead to fall back from the pace group, rehydrate and then catch up at a more measured pace.

Ahhhh the pace group! I can’t believe I’d never run with one before! I loved it so much. Even in the concentrated silence of marathoning I felt like I got to know and care about each of them. (Yeah that’s probably the endorphins talking but I was honestly amazed by how connected I felt to them.) Our pacer checked in with folks as we ran; it was clear he cared about everyone finishing and hitting whatever goals they’d set. At meaningful markers, like 13.1 (the halfway point,) 17 miles (when we only had single digits left,) and 20 and 23.1 miles (last 10 and 5k respectively) folks would call out the accomplishment and we would all cheer. This group of total strangers  kept my pace where it needed to be, but also my mind and my morale. I found myself cheering for their success as much (ok, almost as much?) as my own.

And quick body-positivity detour, I loved how different the people in our group were built. There was a pretty even split of men and women. On the male side especially all ages were represented. The women were all probably under 40, but such different and all-awesome bodies! There were some tall and leggy chicks, some of the very thin, wiry builds that are stereotypically expected of runners, there were two women on the heavier side, and there was even a hobbit! (Me. I’m the hobbit. 4’10” and a lil thick. [Prettier feet though.]) I know I don’t look like someone you would expect to be that fast with my itty legs and not-fucking-around thighs (thank you cycling and ponies!) so I love seeing other folks doing what you wouldn’t think they could just by looking at them.

Ok, out of the cheese and back to the race. Once we were down to single digit miles remaining and into the 4th 10k Josh had said I could start dropping the hammer. I was definitely feeling the milage adding up on my legs – especially my quads, but I was also feeling the best I ever have that many miles into a run. I had dropped a  bit behind the pace group while digging a salt tablet out of my race belt at an aid station around mile 19. I knew I could stay behind them and still hit my 3:29 goal, but I’d kept my heart rate low the whole morning and decided to step it up a little. It was a bit of a gamble but once I’d caught up and settled into what were now 7:50/55 miles my heart rate evened out and  I still felt strong for the final 10k.

After mile 20 or 21, the pace group began to thin out. Doing the math in my head I knew we were on course to beat 3:28 by a bit, so I wasn’t surprised that a few people decided to fall back. Many were probably doing the same as me trying to build a safe cushion under the 3:35 baseline BQ.  I hung in with our pacer thinking, I can keep this up for the last few miles and get a 3:28 instead of 3:29. Plus I figured our pacer was aiming to have room to slow down at the end if needed.

We arrived back in downtown Ventura around mile 23. Welcoming us back to the “city” was a homeless woman in a flowy dress and no undergarments. As I ran by she pulled up her skirt and I was treated to a very Game of Thrones full-frontal experience. (Think Red Lady-minus her necklace – not Red Lady adorned, or Cersei or someone like that if you get what I’m saying. [Oh see now I’ve stopped being body-positive. Sorry!])

My quads were so happy to be done with the downhill portion of the day. Miles 6-23 are not all downhill, there are a number of flat and uphill sections, but overall they are on a decline and there are a few places that are uncomfortably steep descents. The downhill is murder on the quads and scary for someone with rickety bones like me, but of course great for keeping heart rate under control. As we kicked it through downtown I got to recruit the backs of my legs to take over some, but I could feel the aerobic exertion crank up as I watched my numbers climb into the 170s and stay there.

I felt like I could hang in with what was left of the pace group, but I was pushing myself to the max and could feel my body breaking down under that max effort. Sustaining anaerobic threshold over a number of miles is of course uncomfortable, but I reminded myself that I’d held onto the 180s for the Congressional Cemetery 5k a few weeks prior, so I could hold 170 (172 really) a few miles longer.

I’d also been engaging in the mental bargaining we all go through in endurance sports. At mile 16 I had pretty successfully tried to mentally recalibrate, telling myself, ‘ok your run starts here and it’s just a ten mile run’ so now I followed up with, 7 miles down and 3 to go. And since I’d only been looking at my min/mile numbers when my Garmin buzzed for each mile down, I had begun compartmentalizing those mile times. I knew that an overall sub-8 average would get me where I needed  to be regarding a BQ, so I mentally logged every sub-8 mile with a smiley face, while keeping a tally of the miles that were coming in over 8 mins. In the end there were four 8+ miles and the rest were sub. Once I’d gotten to twenty miles and had logged 17 in the 7s and 3 in the 8s I tried to cut myself some emotional slack because I was pretty sure I had my Boston.

This mathlete back-and-forth carried me to about mile 25. At that point there were just two of us still running with our pacer. I felt a little bad to leave the guy who’d gotten me this far, but also, I felt really good! One mile to go! I’ve only got two other full marathons to compare it to, but holy crap this whole training properly thing must be for real because I’ve never felt anywhere near that good at mile 25. I had held back just enough, fueled right, and of course benefited from a great course on a perfect day. All the things came together and I was able to do the thing that runners much stronger and more practiced than I say you should be able to do: At mile 25 I stepped on the gas.

We had turned out of downtown and onto the boardwalk by the beach, so again I had gorgeous surroundings to urge me on. I also knew that I had done it. My BQ was about 7 minutes away from me and if I could keep this push up I would even come in well under my 3:29 goal. My heart was hammering as hard as my legs but there was no reason to hold back.

On the very final quarter mile or so the course started threading up a hill that got steeper as we ran up the shoot. In most races this would be torture but it meant I got to retire my quads and let my (pretty fresh) glutes take over. I glanced at my wrist to see my pace for the first time that day and saw that I was bounding the last .2 at 6:55.

I crossed the finish with a final time of 3:26:41. I slowed to a walk and I cried. After wanting it for years and so many injuries, being diagnosed with osteopenia and female triad syndrome, and sitting on the sidelines for races I’d trained for, I finally had my BQ. I feel pretty silly getting emotional about a hobby – and one that is admittedly mostly pursued by privileged people with time and money to burn – but the symbolic aspects of endurance races and the physical and mental obstacles are real and this really was so many years and miles in the making.

As I wiped my eyes and accepted my medal and a water, the 26.2 miles over which I’d felt so good came crashing into my muscles like a lactic acid flash flood. Our bodies are incredible and get us through what they need to and then once the pressure and adrenaline wane you have some serious shit to reckon with. I walked as normally as I could to the athlete food line and got some grub on while I stretched and waited for Scott.

Scott who did awesome! I wasn’t sure what to expect for him; he’s a really athletic guy but hadn’t gotten to train fully because he’s been trying to make our new house function in terms of things like, ya know, plumbing and electricity. While I selfishly worked out usually 2 times a day he got a couple runs in each week and had gotten just one really long run in the Sunday before. He threw down an impressive 3:44:31, lending even more weight to my belief that if he ever decides to really train for a race he’s just going to crush it.

We were both hurting, and by the time he finished I was violently shivering from the cold (it was probably 60 degrees but sweaty and calorie-depleted my teeth were chattering) but he patiently waited in line with me so I could strike the Boston qualifier gong!

We very slowly picked our way back to the hotel. On the way we stopped in a liquor store and purchased a tall boy of Tecate to share. (I’m not a big beer drinker but there’s not much better than a light beer after a serious cardio sweatfest.) We had about 90 minutes in the hotel to shower and to sit before we had to check out. We used every one of those minutes before slowly rolling our bags out to the rental car (the ramp down into the parking garage was one of the most painful 15 seconds of my life) and headed straight to In and Out.

From there it was down to our favorite hotel in Santa Monica, The Fairmont, where luckily someone had remembered it was our wedding anniversary! (Thanks Fairmont! We really almost forgot!)

See you April 17th, Boston!!!

A quick recap of an exciting and surprising weekend.

Some of my most favorite things in the world are, (in no particular order) running, dogs, cemeteries (and other ghostly places and things) and eating/drinking local DC things. May 7th combined all the things into one glorious morning with Congressional Cemetery’s Day of the Dog.

Congressional Cemetery sits spookily in DC’s SE corner and is one of my favorite place in the city. Beside my love for all things after-lifey and creepy (I blame being a Halloween baby) CC has become this rallying place for the community, with volunteers taking care of its upkeep and organizing great fundraisers and programing. They do movie nights, ghost and history tours, grow their own honey (Rest in Bees – so cute) and they host DC dogs!

Day of the Dog started with a 5k for humans and canines, followed by games  for the pups (bobbing for hotdogs, ball-oney pit, an agility course [at which my dog did not excel]) and food trucks and stalls for the peoples. I had signed myself, Scott, and Birkin (our giant dire wolf) up to run. When I registered I looked at last year’s run times and saw that the winning woman had pulled down a 22:something. I’ve always been a terrible sprinter, but on my best days I can turn in a 22 minute 5k, so that planted this seed of, maybe I can win.

It seemed perhaps too optimistic, but I’ve been working on having different paces for different distances (like most normal [effective] runners), and this seemed like an opportunity to put that work to the test. When I started training with a coach a couple months ago, one of my first run run work-outs broke up intervals by 13.1, 10k and 5k pace. I responded to my coach that all of those things were the same pace so basically to me that looked like 45 minutes at 7:45/mile. But, using Jack Daniels’ VDOT run chart (thanks Kim/@TrackClubBabe!), track work, and shorter intervals and higher speeds, I’ve been introducing paces adjusted for distance into my repertoire. On May 7th I put it to the test with CC’s Day of the Dog 5k.

It was four weeks out from Mountains to Beach marathon, so I did 7 miles before, including some push miles. I arranged those miles around the Mall and then to the Cemetery, while Scott drove there with Birkin. Scott was kind enough to run with Birk as well, letting me do my thing sans 90 lbs of dead weight. (Birkin is really not a runner.)

Scott was running late so I lined up at the last minute with friends. They actually joined the center of the crowd already at the start line, while I invited myself to the front of the pack. (With 112 runners, and 3.1 miles, this was obviously not a corral situation. [Kinda like Cherry Blossom 10! #stillmad])

The gun went off about 15 seconds after I’d gotten to the start and we took off. Because I have no actual 5k experience (I’d actually never done one that wasn’t part of a sprint triathlon) my strategy was to just go out as fast as I fucking could and run the three miles at an RPE that felt just slightly shy of death.

And it worked! (However this positive outcome should not encourage anyone else ever to ever employ my “strategic” masochism.)

We hoofed it out of the Cemetery and I got to the first of two switchbacks around .5 miles which gave me  an opportunity to survey the immediate competition. And it was all dudes! (And one of the fastest dogs ever! [Also a dude.]) I was at least 50 yards ahead of the nearest ladies. I was encouraged but knew I was only 1/6 of the way there and I had to keep pushing to the point of want-to-die to defend my lead.

At the first mile marker I was at 6:43/mile. Not my fastest mile ever but pretty close to my mile max. I knew I couldn’t keep that pace up the whole way in, I just dug in and held on as long as I could. Around 1.8 miles, the weeks of rain intervened with a washed out sidewalk. Given the choice between ankle deep water or running into the thigh-high* grass on the sides of the path, everyone opted for a stomp through the vegetation. This little cross country obstacle popped up a few feet before the second switchback, which meant we got to encounter it twice.

*For normal-sized people the grass may have been knee-or-less-high. 

The muddy, grassy diversion slowed everyone down a touch (but without providing a reprieve to the RPE or heart rate deathiness) and was a little scary because we couldn’t see what our footing looked like in the grass. I was afraid I would roll my ankle or fall, but I made it through both water elements and carried on. That second mile I clocked in  around 7:01/mile, which was a little disappointing. Without having to slow down through the grass I would have turned in two consecutive miles in the 6s, which would have been a coup for me. (Remember: NOT a  sprinter.)

At that second mile marker, I could see that one of the women had closed the 50 yard gap a little, though she was still a decent way back. I still felt pretty safe but became a little nervous that I’d lose my lead in the last mile. Especially because my bullheaded run-till-you-die strategy was really starting to wear me out.

I was encouraged to keep fighting by some great volunteers helping us stay on course and manning the aid station (which we hit twice thanks to switchback city.) They gave me extra love shouting, “first woman!” My fellow females especially yelled for me and boosted my confidence. (Ooh, and more woman-power, I had put Beyonce’s Daddy Lessons [Lemonade. All hail.] on repeat and it’s hard not to sprint through that jam.)

I kept pushing as hard as I could, and within a few minutes (which obviously felt much longer) I was turning onto the final stretch back into the Cemetery grounds. At this point the couple guys who finished before me were well ahead, and some others had fallen back, so I was running by myself. Running into the Cemetery was another good vantage to see whether the runner lady in second was gaining on me. She was nowhere in sight, so as I came around the final turn and could see the finish line, I let myself off the near-death hook a bit, which I now regret.

I crossed the finish line as the first woman in at 22:04. My third mile had dropped off to 7:14. If we hadn’t had that water obstacle (twice) and/or if I hadn’t let myself slow in the final stretch I could have turned in my first 5k under 22 minutes, hence a little regret at not pushing all the way to the end.

But I did win! And I’ve always considered myself such a crap runner of shorter distances, so after all the work put in the last few months, this felt awesome.

Most days training is thankless. It’s early mornings and late nights alone in the pool or on the bike or the track. Lots of workouts can be disappointing and frustrating, and all you want sometimes is to go with your friends to happy hour or brunch instead of to the gym. Those days that you can actually see the results of all of those early mornings and late nights are so exciting. Concrete evidence of progress in the form of a win (and a gift certificate to a local brewery!) becomes the fuel for the next few weeks of grinding it out.

I fully acknowledge that this was a tiny and not very competitive 5k, and that 22:04 wouldn’t translate to a win in most races, but now it has me wondering if I can sustain that speed in a sprint tri. And speaking of which, my first real podium came last year during the Giant Acorn sprint, where I took home 3rd in my age group and won the run. Maybe the shorter distances are actually more my strength than I thought. (Maybe [more likely] it’s just luck of the competition pool.)

My friends, Arianna and Jeff (and their awesomely wiggly lab, Truman) finished about 3 minutes later, followed by Scott and Birkin a few minutes after that. Some of the folks running with their four legged best friends were clearly helped along by their dogs’ exuberance, but Scott was way handicapped by our furry guy. (So furry, oh my god.) Scott basically did those 3.1 miles with a 90 pound, very distractible anvil at the end the leash.

When I saw my guys coming down the final straightaway I began yelling for Birkin. He heard my voice and visibly perked up, but unfortunately he couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from. He started serpentining around Scott, looking for his mama. Arianna and Jeff joined me in calling him in and he got the hint finally heading straight for the finish line. Man oh man he looked adorable running it in!

I’m not sure how a 5k victory will translate to my marathon at the end of the month, but I enjoyed the hell out of that morning. The run, the win, the dogs, the friends, the food trucks, the pause in the constant rain, the amazing Congressional Cemetery. The whole dang thing. Now back to work!

The Cherry Blossom Ten Miler is a wildly popular lottery race, arguably because it is usually such a beautiful and pleasant time of year to run around the National Mall. This year’s Cherry Blossom was not the idyllic sunny sojourn for ten miles under suspended wreaths of pinks and blues. It was not a joyfilled jaunt around the National Mall past breathtaking views of the Tidal Basin and monuments. No the only thing breathtaking were the 60 mph gusts that smashed into you full bore so hard they knocked the wind right out of you.

On top of the predicted wind and 40 degree temps on what should have been a beautiful April day, the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler was far from an A or even B race – hardly even a C race. It’s just generally such a beautiful day I couldn’t help but enter the lottery back in the fall. Where the Rock ‘n’ Roll Half was also meant as just a training day with ya know, course support and better hydration, this one at only ten miles and a few weeks closer to Mountains to Beach marathon was meant to be the same plus the extra miles on my own I was going to have to supplement.

I needed to do six in addition to the race’s prescribed ten, and I knew without hemming and hawing much over it that I’d prefer to get them done before the race so that I could enjoy the finish line festivities and free food. As March closed out and April arrived, a funny thing happened (not funny haha, more like funny fuck you) and winter refused to leave. As the predicted temperature for April 3rd looked worse and worse, I questioned the wisdom of a predawn, pre-race 10k. But I’d mentally already committed to that schedule of events so that remained the plan. And not getting the miles in that day was out of the question as I recently began working with a coach and he’d already uploaded the workout into Training Peaks. (More on how finally having a coach and a real training plan and support and has opened my eyes to everything I’ve been doing wrong for years another day!)

By the time I hit the race expo on Saturday, weather predictions were in the 30s and 40s with sustained winds of 30mph and 60mph gusts. Participants and organizers were beginning to get a little antsy. Still the expo was fun; I bought new clothes, gear and shotblocks I did not need, and, most importantly, got to see and meet Meb!

Maybe a month before race day organizers sent an email with the exciting news that Meb would be running his first Cherry Blossom Ten as part of his Rio 26.2 training. In keeping with his well-known generous character, he did a number of talks, Q&As, and photo ops at the expo. Hearing him speaking about 18 hours before I knew we’d be running against some unseasonably unpleasant race conditions was a great psychological boost. It’s hard to throw yourself a pity party in the face of Meb’s family story and his years of perseverance. (Hard but not impossible; I still fit plenty of groaning and woe-is-me’ing in those 18 hours. Just ask Scott!) After he spoke, I was able to speak with Meb, get some pictures, and got him to sign my race number. I apologized for DC’s blustery and frigid welcome and admittedly mulled whether I could start with the six minute mile crew to pace him – even if only for a few minutes! (In the end I opted to stick with reality and my regularly-assigned corral.)

While in line to meet Meb I also got to meet a fellow DC runner and triathlete with whom I’ve shared Insta pics and emails for some time. She posts as @livefreeandrun and is a totally committed and badass athlete. She always sends me encouragement and when I hate my 5am alarm, sometimes I’ll take a peak at her account because I just know she’s already out there pounding the twilight pavement. Getting a real-life hug in from a virtual friend and runspiration was awesome. I’m reminded at least weekly that community is probably the best part of this crazy endurance sport ride.

I ran into a few other run/tri friends at the expo before cutting my spending off and heading home. I had to get a long swim in that afternoon before my early-bird pasta binge. (Of the many having-a-coach-who-knows-what-he’s-doing revelations of the past month, one of my favorites has been learning how much less swimming sucks when you have a plan.)

After swimming all the laps and dinner, I had to finally really contend with what the eff I was going to wear to be comfortable during two likely-to-be-miserable runs. I was concerned with the cold temps and wind of course, but I was mostly worried about the downtime between runs. I didn’t want to become too uncomfortable or worse, to let my core body temp get dangerously low while waiting for the actual race to start.

The gun would go off at 7:30am for Meb and the elites, and I was in the first corral, so we were estimated to cross the start line within two or three minutes after that. My plan for the morning, working backwards from a 7:32 start, was to be out the door and running at 6am. My coach wanted me to take those first six miles at a slow pace – about a minute slower than marathon race pace. My goal was to do around 8:45s and be done around 6:50, ending that run near the start line. Then I would get immediately in a porta potty line and from there head to my corral.

I knew that forty minutes between finishing the first leg and starting the race were potentially dangerous. It’d be cold of course, and I’d be sweaty and down calories. But I also knew That I have a tendency to overdress for runs, underestimating how much my core body temp will climb once I get going. (Like most small females I am in a constant state of icicle and I live in constant fear of being painfully cold. [As I write this I am ironically on the warmest airplane I’ve ever been on and have been stripping layers since we left Salt Lake City. By the time we land in DC I may be in handcuffs. And not much more.])

I finally decided on long tights (but not my fleece-lined Nikes), a Marine Corps Marathon mock turtleneck (yes fleece-lined) over a black tank, and topped off with a light zip-up Nike windbreaker. If that sounds like too many layers to you, then maybe I should be consulting with you on my next race outfit. I figured I could wear that whole ensemble for the front 6 miles as they would be done in the dark and slow. Then I could tie the the MCM turtleneck around my waist before the race started. I went to bed thinking I had a plan.

I got up around 5:30 and was out the door maybe 5 after 6, so pretty much right on target. I zigzagged down to the Mall and kept my pace around where I wanted it. The headwind I faced most of the way down helped in this arena. I was a little warm towards the end, but generally pretty comfortable the whole time, so I started thinking, maybe I should keep the turtleneck on during the race.

I got to the Mall a little before 7am and got straight on line for the porta johns. As I waited, I reached into the windbreaker pocket where I’d stashed my phone, ID, debit card, cash, and Metro smart trip. The only thing still there was my phone. My heart stopped. I’d been leaving a bread crumb trail of money and personal effects for 10k around the city. I got out of line and retraced my steps about a block but didn’t find any of my missing cards. (I knew the cash was long gone.) In what will sound like a commercial (I swear I’m not sponsored…though I’m open to such an arrangement) I was able to get online while (back) on line at the portas and cancel the debit card before it was even my turn. I was relieved as I relieved myself (ok I’l stop) that at least someone wouldn’t be out shopping on me over the next 80 some minutes of running.

From the bathroom I headed to the corrals, by which I really mean the disorganized paddocks of freezing runners who had ceased to care about what color their bibs were. About 12 hours before the race, organizers sent out a pretty doomsday-esq email basically shitting their pants over the wind situation. They informed all runners that given the predicted gustage, there would be no on-course signage – no mile markers or clocks – fewer drink and nutrition stations, and no finish line festivities. (So really I could have just run the extra 10k after Cherry Blossom but ah well.) They went so far as to ask everyone to pick up their food and medals and then go straight home after the race.

In addition to scrapping mile timing markers, and finish line festivities, race organizers apparently had given up enforcing corral assignments. There were no signs denoting coral colors, I couldn’t see any pace group pennants, I squeezed into the shivering mass of mis-matched bib numbers as close to the start line as I could.

By this time the heat from my first run had warn off and the cold was easily whipping through my tights and jacket and turtle neck and tank top and freezing the layer of sweat I’d worked up to the (too) many layers of clothing.

My teeth had begun chattering as I shimmied through the crowd trying to get off the periphery into the warmer center throng. The chattering was totally involuntary and becoming violent – I tried to take deep breaths and will my jaw to stop vibrating, fearing I would chip a tooth. I was thinking I should take my turtle neck layer off before the gun goes off, but in my frozen condition I could not imagine giving up my warmest piece of clothing. Instead I leaned into the crowd – as much as possible without being inappropriately intimate – and ducked lower every time the wind picked up. Using the tall and average-height [read: over 5 foot] runners as a wind-shield was one of the only times being itty has been an advantage in this sport.

In the melee I had no idea what corral I was in, but as the gun went off – seemingly without any warning – the wall of body heat around me began shuffling forward. Fortunately I’d managed to get into the correct, first corral. Unfortunately, most of the people around me were well ahead of their assigned spot, and as we unceremoniously shivered over the start line, I waited for the pace to pick up, only to find everyone stayed slow and shuffling. Glancing at the numbers on the bibs around me I realized most of them corresponded with 9+ min miles. I saw a few fellow red bibbers, all looking very irritated – some throwing bows and weaving awkwardly around the edges of the crowd to get ahead.

I latched onto a young woman whose number was close to my own and who was admirably efficient at staking a path forward. I followed her through the jogging hordes, and at places she actually fell back and followed me. It took three miles to find some breathing (running) room.

Miles of bobbing and weaving while being whipped by 40 mph winds was a major waste of time and energy, and I really wish race organizers and volunteers hadn’t completely thrown their hands up at the corral system in the face of bad weather. I understand the safety-conscious decision to remove mile markers and things that could become airborne missiles at the hands of a strong gust, but I don’t understand why they would decide to let their hard work of dividing people by pace go by the wayside. I have so much respect for folks hoofing it slower than me – their dedication and willingness to run for more hours blows me away, and they probably enjoy this sport for purer reasons than I – but it is still hard to not be very aggravated when hundreds of people corral jump netting me 3 miles that were slower and colder miles than they should have been (and obviously an overall slower time).

Moving on.

Once I finally broke free and started to pick up speed, I pretty much immediately regretted not having the eggs to ditch the turtleneck before we got going. I quickly overeheated and knew I had to strip, and sooner rather than after a muscling through a few more uncomfortable miles. Somewhere in mile 4 I ducked onto the curb and shed clothes as fast as I could…which wasn’t very fast. I had to get my iPhone out of my pocket first, and then lose my outer shell windbreaker before stripping the turtleneck. Then I had to get the windbreaker zipped back on, reattach my music, and tie my turtleneck around my waist in such a way that would be comfortable and not block my number. (I momentarily considered just ditching it as I have a couple, but I knew I’d need it again a few feet after the finish line.)

All told this pitstop set me back almost two full minutes. Just when I’d picked up steam my time dropped way down. And hundreds of the people I’d just worked so hard to pass had gotten in front of me again.

Heading back into the racing throng was psychologically brutal. I recognized the backs of people I had already had to swerve around. It was a terrible type of dejavu. And it coincided with a stretch where the wind became comprised of mini cyclones. I’d never felt anything like it while running: instead of a tailwind (wishful thinking) or a headwind (wait for it, wait for it) the wind just whipped around in all directions, creating the sensation that I was running in the middle of my own personal twister. I talked to others after the race who echoed my experience. We all agreed we were not fans.

As we headed into miles 5 through 8 we made our way to Hains Point and the stretch I had most dreaded given the wind predictions. HP is windy when the rest of DC is calm. I was particularly anxious for miles 7 and 8 – generally this southwest portion of the Point is the worst. In mentally preparing I assured myself that at least once we turned the corner and headed back north things would improve in the final stretch.

I predicted and mentally prepared wrong. So wrong.

Running south into mile 7 I was pleasantly surprised that the wind didn’t seem any worse than usual. I was even laying down 7:20s and 7:30s and feeling like, if this is as bad as the wind gets, I can totally hold this pace the whole way home!

Then, just midway through our 8th mile we rounded the Point, and my backpatting turned into flagellating. The headwind crashed into us so hard it knocked the wind out of me. It was that feeling like if you put your head out the window of a moving car – where the air is coming at you so fast you can’t actually inhale or exhale any of it. (Ok, is that a weird simile? Have other people done that? If you don’t know what I’m talking about – ask your dog. She knows.)

Those last 2 and change miles hurt. I gave up on my mid 7s and settled into low 8s and prayed to hold on. The last quarter or half mile exits HP thankfully, and then heads mercilessly uphill to the finish line. My 8s gave ways to 8:15s and people started passing me as I struggled to keep picking up my feet. As I questioned what my problem was, I had to remind myself that this wasn’t mile 10, it was mile 16. This lessened the embarrassment a little – though I’m always convinced the racers around me are judging me, so I wanted to be able to explain to them that I’d done extra and wasn’t as pitiable as I seemed.

Inner (crazy pants) dialogue aside I kept moving forward technically, and every step felt more difficult than the last all the way through the finish line. I didn’t have a heart rate monitor on – if I had it may have exploded.  My rate of perceived exertion was cranked up to 11. When I finally crossed the final timers and slowed to a walk, I sincerely feared I was about to throw up. I’ve never puked after a workout; this was the closest I think I’ve ever come to doing so.

A finish line photographer approached and rather than smile I grimaced for the camera. Needless to say I did not end up buying that image (for the low price of $19. So stupid.)

Race organizers kept their promise and there were no festivities to dawdle over, so I collected my water and banana, my medal and thermal blanket and headed north towards home.

As predicted, within 5 minutes my core body temp was back to penguin levels and I had to stop and re-don the turtle neck. I then re-cocooned into the thermal and kept trudging north. I called Scott and gave him my coordinates and route home and he and the dogs (we were dog-sitting that weekend) got in the car to intercept me.

As I plodded up 14th St gusts of angry wind howled at me knocking me a few steps back for every little bit of progress I made. In the 15 or so minutes it took from when I called Scott to his arrival at the mall, I’d only managed to get about two blocks. I was moving so slowly he thought he’d come too far south and must have passed me, but I was really still a half block from where I could see he’d pulled over to call me.

I was so happy to see him I hobble-jogged that half block and yanked open the door of my beloved green Mini, Yoshi. I was met by the glorious sight of Scott and multiple doggy faces. There is truly no better welcome after a tough 10 or 16 miles than puppy (face) kisses. Also, man’s best friend is great for warming a gal up!

I squeezed into the front seat underneath my friends’ black lab, Truman who was our very adorable house (and car) guest for the week. He is an absolute joy and a huge weirdo, so he kept his big wiggly butt on my lap and dropped his front feet to the floor for the ride home. He seemed to be quite happy with this awkward contortion.

 

When we got home, I extricated myself from the dog butt and snuggled into some sweats on top and bottom. Well first I put on Scott’s sweats which were sitting on the couch, snuggled some more with the dogs, and then finally put my own schlubby clothes on to reface the outside world.

 

Scott and I walked the couple breezy blocks to Shaw’s Tavern to meet a friend who had also run for brunch. It was maybe 10:30 when we got there – too early for the professional brunch crowd – so we sat right down. When the fancy brunchers started trickling in all dolled up for their bottomless mimosas and bloodies, I had a brief moment of, ‘man I look like a scrub,’ followed by a more elated, ‘man I got a lot done before most of the city even rolled out of bed.’

I kicked off 2016 on March 12th with my third or fourth outing in the RockNRoll DC half marathon. The first race of 2016 was really just a training run for this season’s two big goals: a BQ at the Mountains to Beach Marathon (California) in May and finishing Ironman Chattanooga in September (sans traumatic brain injuries or stress fractures.)

At RockNRoll last year I had a 13.1 PR of 1:41:24. I knew the race this year would be slower and definitely not a record-breaker. Last year the soggy morning I think helped my legs along – less time to sit back and take stock of the joy of running with thousands of friends. This year we had pretty ideal race conditions: a dry upper 40s overcast start to the weekend. If it’d been any warmer or less pleasant I don’t think I could have pulled down the 1:42:20 I ended up with. Knowing what I was working with going in I was pretty happy with that and feel like I’m on track for that coveted Boston 2017 bib.

I knew going in that I was a month behind last year thanks to the month of January spent in South Africa and Madagascar. (I can’t really complain about the lack of conditioning because honeymoon is pretty much the best excuse to be fat [tan] [full] and happy ever.) Once Scott and I were home from our African odyssey I tried to get right down to business, rebuilding my aerobic base and putting the miles back on. (Miles back on my legs, in the saddle, and in the pool. And of course got back to strength work on the megaformer at [solidcore].)

In my runs through February and the first bit of March, I felt so slow. I couldn’t crack into the 7s even on my shortest runs and in 20 degrees. After 2015 where speed felt like it was finally clicking into place – a season marked by my annual stress fracture yes, but also by my first podium (in a sprint in which I’d won the run despite almost no running thanks to said annual stress fracture) and by consistent mid-7 numbers no matter the distance or multi-sport designation – I thought even with a month long sub-Saharan sabbatical I should be able to tick those numbers down right away. Not so.

I complained pathetically to my friend and runspiration, Kim – she of Track Club Babe fame (read her blog for a dose of positive outlook that’ll knock your compression socks off) – and she assured me my pacing would come back and reminded me that 2016 is all about eyes on the M-Dot prize.

In the month leading up to RockNRoll, DC experienced a bipolar vortex, with weekly temperatures ranging from wind-chills below zero to 80 degree summer wardrobe days. Each extreme offered its own conditioning challenges. The east-ward howling headwind that inflated my hood no matter how tight I tied it, turning my winter run-gear into a cranial parachute was unpleasant. But then again so was the 60 degree spike in the thermostat, melting my already tired, unconditioned legs to salty, crampy tree stumps. In the last couple weeks before race day, I managed to squeeze in a couple runs in the high 7s, but more often I was turning in mid to low 8s, and working hard for them.

Race week I changed up my schedule to give myself a full rest day on Friday for the Saturday race. Usually I do one of my two weekly [solidcore] classes on Fridays before work and either spin or run Friday night. Instead I did 2.5 miles Thursday evening on my way to a [solidcore] class, which Coach Sarah was kind enough to make arms and abs-focused. Those 2.5 miles hurt. And they were slow. And the little bit of legs we did in class was painful. That night I texted my race crew, Mike and Chris, and told them Saturday was looking rough. I was starting to worry about cracking 1:50; dreading a really bad performance that might be a really discouraging start to an ambitious race season.

Friday I slept in a bit, freed of my 5am alarm, then slowly walked to work. (I’m competitive even as I commute, running to catch lights and get in front of other pedestrians. I generally arrive at the office sweaty and harried [BUT VICTORIOUS] no matter the weather.) After work, Chris and I hit the expo, which was at the Stadium Armory this year – much less convenient than the Convention Center where it was last year.

Chris tried to convince me to buy $150 of Expo gear so that I could upgrade to a VIP bathroom. I, ahem, shit you not, that’s an upgrade RnR DC (all RnR races?) offers. As into pre-race BMs and Expo spend-happy as I am, you’d expect me to be the target audience here, and even I think that’s absurd. Instead I spent a respectable $75 (oops) and Chris and I metro’ed back to Shaw to meet (my hubs) Scott for pre-race pasta at the same restaurant we went to last year, Dino. (Race-eve or regular night, I love this place! Actually it’s better when you can take full advantage of their very fun and thoughtful wine list.)

Back at home after dinner, I was pretty laid back about putting my gear together, forgetting to do it until the last minute. I guess I had successfully convinced myself that this was nothing more than my long run of the week. I told Scott that it was really nice not caring too much about a race. I was so relaxed – almost too relaxed considering I legitimately almost forgot to get my gear-check bag ready. We went to bed around 10 or 10:30 and I set my alarm for 5:30. It was all pretty standard for any morning workout, and actually a few minutes later than I get up for pre-work training.

I woke up decently-rested, got in an uber at 6am, and was in my first porta potty by 6:20am. I slowly wandered up to the bag check trucks with more than an hour to kill before the first gun would go off. It was quite cold, and I loitered around the W truck for a while before Chris and Mike showed up forcing me to part with all my long-sleeve layers. I hemmed and hawed over whether to go sleeveless or not. It was low-40s and there was a chance of light rain. Mike convinced me to give them up and I’m so glad he did. Within a few minutes of crossing the start line I was warm enough to be comfortable in my tank, and if I’d kept the top layer I’m afraid it would have slowed me down – or at some point I would have been forced to do the awkward strip-while-running routine, replete with trying to remove my arm band without tripping over my headphones. I always keep thermal blankets when they’re passed out after races, so with my NYC Marathon throw-away thermal, I wasn’t too uncomfortable after giving up my sleeves and gear bag.

Knowing I was a month behind last year in training, I hadn’t been sure what to guestimate as my finishing time. I think I predicted 1:44, which landed me in corral 3 out of I’m not sure how many – several dozen though – so I crossed the start line just three minutes after the gun. This happily meant less time to freeze and regret giving up my sleeves, and less elbow-throwing to find a place and pace in the first couple miles.

Last year I remember it being much more crowded in the beginning of the race – a people-heavy predicament which showed up in my splits. Actually, while I was slower overall this year, I was so much more consistent this time out. Last year I fluctuated almost every mile – from mile times in the 8s to my first ever 6’er in a race. This year, no 6’ers, but, with the exception of the evil Rock Creek hill, my mile times were all within 20 seconds of each other. Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit, but as someone who has always struggled with pacing, doing a better job in this category feels like I’m maturing as a runner.

That said, (bragged,) the hill in Rock Creek really did me in this year. That was the point at which I acutely felt my want of conditioning. Hills are usually my jam. I generally charge up them as fast as I can and trust in my fitness that I’ll recover. This year I crept up slowly, unable to turn up the turn-over, and once at the top, it took me at least half a mile to recover my breath, my stride, and my heart rate. Cresting Rock Creek this year felt less like the accomplishment it has previously, and more like a badly-performed T2 (bike to run transition) in a triathlon I haven’t prepared for.  This mega-incline hits close to the half-way point (of the half anyway … poor full marathon folks) and I became legitimately concerned that I wouldn’t be able to regain my pre-climb pace. Eventually I got my legs back underneath me and settled back into the 7:40s – definitely benefiting from some downhill stretches in the later miles.

I was hoping to see my hubbie and pup around mile 10, but I beat them there by a few minutes, so that was a bittersweet missed connection. Last year I missed them around mile 8 because I was too distracted by being drenched and miserable – they saw me, I just kept my head down and didn’t see them. Better luck in 2017?

The remaining miles were pleasantly uneventful – with one adorable exception.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned here my longstanding obsession with Great Danes, but suffice it to say, this decades long love-affair has become perhaps unhealthy in recent months. After hitting the 11 mile marker I was holding pretty steady at 7:45 min/mile. I remember thinking that I could maintain that the last two miles, but that I definitely didn’t have anything extra left in the tank. I mentally committed to that pace for the next 16 minutes. About ten strides later I turned right up a small incline, and what did I see? Only the most beautiful blue harlequin Great Dane in history. I reflexively gasped and lost all control of my breathing. I paused trying to decide if I should ask to pet it. Or just grab it and go. (That was out of the question because I knew I was out of sprinting gas.) I decided to stay the course and not stop (I’d probably never start again) but the brief hyperventilation and adrenaline surge totally upended my plan to hold that steady 7:45.  The presence of a giant, beautiful, smooshy dog was very nearly my undoing. I may need to wear blinders for my A races the rest of the year. Or I just need my own Great Dane. Ultimately I was able to speed it back up in the final stretch to the finish line, but I would have been closer to last year’s time without that cuddly distraction.

I was the first out of my race crew to finish so I headed to gear check to put some layers back on and get some calories back in. It was lovely not finishing during a downpour. I collected arm-loads of water, gatorade, chocolate milk, bananas, and pretzels on my way to the gear check trucks. Once fully laden with noms and warm clothes I posted up on a hill near the finish line.

While nomming and waiting, I met an older gent (early 60s) who will be running Ironman Chattanooga for the second time this summer. He had lots of great advice for the race and for tackling IM in general.  He had just lost his wife to a long battle with cancer in January, and told me how diving into tri training has been his solace through her sickness and now in her absence. It broke my heart while reinforcing my love for this community of people and this sport.

Chris finished, gathered his own gear and met me and my new, inspiring friend. Mike was doing the full 26.2 so we hung out a while and then wandered over to the finisher’s shoot to cheer him in.  Mike didn’t have the race he was hoping for, but his bad day is most people’s best day ever, and he was really upbeat in the face of disappointment. He layered back up, and with the crew complete we were able to put the calories back in for real.  (Good because by then I’d been done and getting hungrier for close to two hours.)

After a disastrously rainy year last year (see 2015 race report) Rock ‘n’ Roll organizers did a great job of revamping the finish area so it was more convenient to the metro and offered more opportunities to not be soaked and freezing. Fortunately we didn’t need the dry changing areas this time, and instead got to take advantage of the food trucks and Michelob tent.

We hit up the DC Slices truck (most popular at the race by far) and plowed through some serious carbs. Then we very happily made use of our beer tickets and enjoyed some pretty decent music before heading to the metro and home.

Because people were able to enjoy the finish area this year, the metro wasn’t mobbed, and I was able to get right on a train. Somehow DC’s weekend metro service was running smoothly and I was home with the hubs and the pup in no time – making up for missing them earlier. I love that this race is on a Saturday and so easy to get to and from. It leaves the rest of the weekend available which makes me feel like less of a selfish race-drone. I couldn’t really ask for a better start to 2016.