Because I Lived

In April, as part of my Annual Bad Idea™, once again I participated in the DHM+5: a five-mile race on Friday; a half marathon on Saturday; a half marathon on Sunday.  Once again, I was overweight, undertrained, and unprepared. When I was in my peak physical form (still round), I could do a half marathon in a little over two and a half hours. After gaining back all the weight I lost and falling off the training wagon, my goal has been to finish 13.1 in under three hours.

The five-mile race Friday night went pretty smoothly; I was pleased. I did it in just over an hour, which is a 12:00/mile pace. Nothing to write home about for sure, but I was happy to maintain a steady pace and my last mile was my second to fastest one.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy

The Saturday half, however, was not going to go as smoothly. At about mile 4, I had that wonderful feeling of just kinda sorta having to pee. There is only one restroom on the course; a porta-john at the turnaround point. I spent the next few miles fixating on the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel–at least it helped distract me from the fact that the last couple of miles before the turnaround are a very gradual but very tedious and persistent uphill climb.

After taking my “natural break,” and facing a downhill for the majority of the remaining race, I was a new woman. I breezed through the next couple of miles, but then the suffering started to set in. Generally, when I’m running a half while undertrained, the wheels fall off around mile 10. My goal was just to finish under three miles; I started checking my watch more often and doing random math on my head. I also crawled right into my own head and started questioning everything I do–why do I run when I’m not getting better at it? Why don’t I just give up; what do I have to prove? Why do all these people tell me how impressed they are with my running–don’t they know how bad I suck? When I had mentally driven myself into the ground just about as far as I could go, one of my favorite running songs piped into my headphones: “I Lived” by OneRepublic.

Hope that you spend your days
But they all add up
And when that sun goes down
Hope you raise your cup
I wish that I could witness
All your joy and all your pain
But until my moment comes
I’ll say

I, I did it all
I, I did it all
I owned every second that this world could give
I saw so many places, the things that I did
Yeah with every broken bone
I swear I lived

When I get very emotional, I sometimes will have a weird asthma-like attack, where I make a horrifying wheezing sound and can’t catch my breath. Usually, all I can do to stop it is to calm myself down and slow my breathing, but I’ve always been able to snap out of it on my own.

until my moment comes *wheeze*

I did it all *wheeze*

I did it all *wheeze*

I owned every second *wheeze* this wold could give *wheeze*

I swear I lived *wheeze*

As the miles and the second counted down, I knew it would be down to the wire to achieve my ridiculously underwhelming goal of a sub-3:00 half. As I suffered to the end [but I swear I lived], I knew I wasn’t going to make it. As I saw the finish line get close enough, I kicked into a gear I didn’t have left to push across the finish line and freak out my husband with another wheezing attack. My finishing time: 3:01:04.

I lived.

It’s safe to say I worked some stuff out with myself on Half Day #1. In contrast, Day #2, while still a complete sufferfest, was quite unremarkable (in more ways than one). I averaged about a minute per mile slower, but I finished upright and felt okay by the end.

My 34th and 35th half finisher medals, but my first-ever finisher patch!

 

For the first time, there will be a second DHM+5 offered this fall. I haven’t committed to it yet, but I’d like to see what I’m capable of. I’d like to say I did it all.

Welcome Back

About this time eight years ago, I started my fitness journey. About three years ago, I started to falter a little; two years ago, I fell off the wagon, and a year ago, I was sick, couldn’t do any physical activity for pretty much my entire summer, and I lost almost every single gain I had made since 2011. Since this fall, I’ve started to try to work my way back to where I was at my peak, but it’s been a rough road.

Having this dingus as a running partner/motivation doesn’t hurt.

When we got our husky puppy, Quinn, she was good motivation to get in a run–she has A LOT of energy to burn. All winter, I was able to run pretty regularly, but usually only a mile or two at a time. I was able to maintain a very, very basic level of fitness, but that’s about it.

For the first running race of the new year, I ran Empyrean Ales, a trail 5K race and one of my favorite races. I was slow but steady, and felt absolutely fantastic by the end. I was ready to improve. I ran two 10Ks in March, the Leprechaun Chase and the Shamrock Shuffle. They weren’t great, but they weren’t bad; still more than a minute per mile slower than I know what I’m capable of, but I felt pretty okay through both races. Next up was Race for GRACE, another 10K and one of my last chances for a “long” run before the Double Half Mary.

13 degrees at race time. Let’s do this.

At the start line of the Race for GRACE, I ran into Brittnnii, a friend of a friend that I had met just the evening before. We chatted a little before the start; she mentioned something about running together, but I warned her that I was pretty slow, so not to have too high of expectations out of me.

The race started, and we hit our own paces, and I lost sight of Brittnnii. I focused on trying to catch up with the two firemen running the 10K in full gear.

 

Show off.

 

Brittnnii and I somehow ended up back together, and fell into step with each other. We were able to overtake one of the firemen, and we started to maintain a nice, steady pace. There were a few times that if I’d been running on my own, I would’ve taken a walk break, but Brittnnii was the motivation I needed to keep moving. We chatted back and forth a little; I told her about my struggles and how I hadn’t run hardly at all the year before, but I was trying to get back into the swing of things.

“Well,” she said simply. “Welcome back!”

It was amazing how powerful that statement was for me. I was struggling in my running, both physically and mentally, but my partner saw someone who was “back.” I was back. I was definitely coming back.

We didn’t have a whole lot of race left, when we started worrying about the lack of “butterflies” on the course. The Race for GRACE is a fundraiser for an organization that helps local families affected by cancer; individuals can buy signs to display along the race route to honor loved ones. Usually, the signs started only a couple of miles into the race; we were close to four miles in but hadn’t seen a single butterfly yet. We worried that with the recent bad weather, the race organizers were unable to put the signs out, but fortunately, we came across the butterflies with a couple of miles to go. Hundreds of butterflies line the route, each one with the name of someone affected by cancer. It can be humbling, to say the least.

It’s pretty common for runners to pick up their butterflies to carry with them to the finish line; Brittnnii stopped to pick one up….and then another….and another….and another. She had so, so many close family members who had been affected by cancer; it was sweet and heartbreaking to see her pick up each butterfly and hold it as we continued. Then, as we neared the last turn to the finish line, we saw something we never would’ve expected–a marriage proposal in progress. Brittnnii acted quickly and got out her phone to take photos; it was a wide swing of emotion for one 10K, but I’m so very excited we got to be a part of it. We congratulated the couple and kept trekking; the finish line wasn’t far away.

We crossed the finish line in 1:16; with a couple of water stops, one walk break, and a stop to witness an incredible moment, an overall pace of 12:06 was nothing for me to be ashamed of. Brittnnii thanked me for keeping her going at a steady pace; I did the same to her. We were just what the other needed for a successful race.

By the time we finished, it had warmed to a balmy 18 degrees, so after saying goodbyes, I changed into dry clothes in the car and my husband took me to the nearest brewery for beermosas.

The taste of victory.

Each of the 10Ks I had run in March and April were progressively faster, so that made me happy. The next challenge was on the horizon, though–the Double Half Mary, a race that would definitely challenge me both mentally and physically. But that was another race for another day.

Welcome back.

Whatever the Weather

Between teaching high school English and photography, implementing a new broadcast journalism class, and advising four student publications (two high school, two college), I had continued on my training plan of “don’t run at all except for 10K and half marathon races you’ve already signed up for.” After the physical drubbing of the Double Half Mary, it was time for the most popular race in Nebraska: the Lincoln National Guard Marathon (and half marathon).

Puns are fun.

One of the major appeals of the Lincoln Half is the tremendous crowd support. I generally can’t run to my music during much of the first few miles because the crowds are cheering so loudly. The energy of the spectators is enough to carry you along the route, no matter what shape you’re in. 

Running with 12,000 of your closest friends isn’t too shabby, either.

The week before Lincoln, the forecast for race time varied from “some rain” to “butt loads of rain.” While I appreciated having plenty of time to prepare for the weather, it didn’t change the fact that I’d finish 13.1 miles looking like a drowned rat. 

Being fast, my husband gets to start toward the front. Being not fast, I start….considerably after. Each wave of a couple hundred runners starts with a couple of minutes in between: the difference between the gun time and when I cross the starting mat is generally around 45 minutes. I had time to pee, stretch, pee, stretch, and pee one more time.

Also, I could wait where it was warm and dry.

Finally, my turn came and I started out. With the cool temperatures and steady light rain, the crowds were considerably thinner–even though they were still pretty impressive. Even though I had time to pee thrice before my start, at about mile two and a half, I had to go again. Just past mile four, I decided that any time I lost waiting in line for a porta potty would be worth it to run comfortably. I stopped just past a water stop and waited my turn. For my first Lincoln Half, my race came crashing to a stop at this very same place. While waiting in line during that race, my body cooled down and my back seized up; I ended up limping the final 8+ miles. I shifted my weight back and forth and tried to shake my legs out to stay loose.

I was thrilled.

Back in the race, my bladder felt much better but my hips were killing me. About mile six, I felt a weird twinge in my hip and when I put my weight on my left foot, I felt my leg start to buckle. I gingerly took a few slow steps, but the crisis seemed to pass and I kept going: slowly and steadily. I had to walk a good part of “The Hill” at mile nine to save myself from injury. I was starting to bonk, and when I reached the magical jelly beans at the top of the Hill, I only managed to grab two or three beans on my way past.

Then, something happened just after mile ten–I finally seemed to find my stride. I plugged along through the steady drizzle: I never checked my pace once throughout the entire race, so I had no clue what my finishing time would be. I had told my husband that with my current state of fitness, I’d be happy finishing in 2:45.

In the final two miles, the rain finally stopped–just in time to run into a north headwind. I put my head down and plodded away. Many of the runners around me seemed to be struggling: I was feeling way better than many of them looked. I passed a 2:55 pacer who was walking, but it didn’t look like he had any runners to lead. I had seen him at my Mile Four pit stop; I’m now convinced he wasn’t actually an official pacer but just carried the sign so that people would let him cut in line at the portable potties.

I finally saw the stadium and cruised in for a 2:52 finish. 

Yay.

With my crap time, I didn’t finish in my usual position of “top half of the bottom half.” However, I found a point of pride when I received my results from the timing company. In the race, runners cross five timing mats: the start line, 5K, 10K, 15K, and finish line. You get all sorts of cool stats and breakdowns of your race; most of them mean nothing to me, but there was one detail that stood out and made me happy. In my final 3.77 miles, I was passed by only four runners, and I passed 223 people.

I only consider it racing when I’m winning.

Apparent all I needed was a nine-mile warmup. I may be slow, but I can trundle along for a pretty long time. My next half will be the Half Hastings in the beginning of June; I’m hoping to build my fitness back to make a better showing. Plus, with roughly 8,700 fewer runners than Lincoln’s Half field, it’ll be a little tougher to pass as many people in the final miles.

Don’t get me started on this a-hole’s finishing time.

Stupidity Shall be Punished, Part II: B Goals

Because running one half marathon without any training isn’t a bad enough idea, it’s best to run them back to back. 

After Day One of the DHM, I could barely walk: how in the name of Hagrid’s harmonica would I be able to run another 13.1?

I decided on a game plan–a survival plan–for my race. I would run for a mile at a time, taking short walking breaks between. Yes, indeed, my plan was to be an Interval Person.

 

Sizing up my competition at the start. My competition of “Me.”

 
I started out at the easiest pace I could muster. The day before, I stayed with the main group for close to three miles before the pack pulled away from me for good. For this race, I lost the group almost immediately. It was a very, very lonely run.

Good talk, guys.

My Interval Person plan seemed to be working out okay, however. I would run for a mile; when my watch beeped the mile split, I would walk until the song playing in my earbuds was finished (usually somewhere between 30 seconds to a minute). When the next song came on, I would limp back into action and finish the mile out at my “race pace.”

At about mile three, the wind was picking up and blowing as a pretty rough headwind. I trudged along, waiting for the turnaround point to alleviate at least some of my suffering. As I came closer to the turnaround, I could see a dog ahead. I was excited to see a dog: something that would distract me, even if just for a little bit. As I got a little closer, I was even more excited to see that it was a corgi. It took me just a little bit longer to realize that it was my corgi. Knowing that I would be struggling with this race, husband had come to the turnaround point, thinking that seeing my dog would keep my spirits up.

 

Corgi cheerleader delivery = how I know we’ll be married for forever.

 
With the wind now at my back, I could get my head back in the game and start thinking about my race performance. Many runners have their “A goal” for a race: the goal to be met under the best possible conditions. As the race pans out, however, sometimes it’s time to switch to the B goal: a backup target dependent on how things are going. My A goal for the Double Half Mary is to be faster on the second day: something that is still yet to be achieved. I ignored my race time on my Garmin until I was at about mile 10, to keep me from getting discouraged. Day One’s finish time was just over 2:54; as I checked my progress, I knew it was time for a B goal. My new goal: to finish under three hours (which is about 34 minutes slower than my half marathon PR).

I like the DHM Day 2 route…until the end of the race. The course is so flat near the trailhead, you can see the finish line from FOREVER away. I saw the finish line, looked at my watch, and assessed that I’d meet my B goal with no problem. Then, after running for several minutes and not seeing the finish line getting any closer, I realized that reaching my B goal would be more difficult and more painful than originally anticipated. In the last half mile, I had to pick up the pace without completely destroying myself. I glanced at my watch multiple times as the seconds ticked away. I dug into the last bits of resolve I had left, to power through to the finish line. I finished in 2:59…and 17 seconds.

“Trial,” indeed.

My B goal may have been a crap goal that I barely met, but I ran back-to-back half marathons with next to zero training and I survived. The evening between races, I counted up the half marathons I’ve run in my four years as a runner and realized I was going to reach a milestone. DHM Day 2 ended up as my 20th half marathon. 

Stupidity shall be Punished, Part I: Intervals & Insanity

We’re a third of the way through 2016 and I’ve decided to dub this “The Year of Dumb.” Over and over again, I’ve signed up for races, not trained for them, and suffered through them. However, by mid-April, I was ready for the mother of all bad choices: the Double Half Mary. 

When I signed up over the winter, I had grandiose plans for a training regimen. Then, with a mix of busyness and laziness, my training plan turned into “run a few 10Ks a few weeks before your back-to-back half marathons.”

Day One came; an out and back on the Oak Creek Trail in Valparaiso. The temperature was nice, in the high 50s but very, very humid. There was a slight breeze at our backs for the start; the course is an out-and-back, which meant we’d likely have a headwind for our return.

Nebraska’s Unofficial Motto: “Windy as All Frick”

The day before the race, some of my students were asking me about my race. One student asked, “So, how many existential crises do you have during a half marathon?” I answered, “Usually two: one at about mile six when I realize I’m not quite halfway, and another at about mile ten when I know that I still have a 5K to go.”

For this race, the first crisis hit at about mile 1.5. I knew that the water sto would be at about mile 2.5, so my goal was to only walk through the water stations. As I was about to give up and start walking, I saw a glorious spot of orange through the trees ahead: the water cooler for the water stop. “Alright,” I thought. “I’ll be okay; I can do this.”

Unfortunately, things would go “real bad real quick.”

First of all, I ended up with Interval People. *DISCLAIMER* Doing a long distance in walk-run intervals is a perfectly legitimate way to do a race and I’m not disparaging those who practice it one iota. But running a race with “Interval People” can be completely soul-sucking and even though I know not to take intervalists as a personal attack, I understand how people can become irrationally angry when they get caught up in the walk/run/madness. I’d pass these runners on their walk break, and get a little bit of distance on them, but on their run intervals, they always caught back up with me. ALWAYS. And then they were THERE. ALWAYS. THERE. I’d pull away; they’d reel me back in. For forever. 

The first half of the course is a very slight but very persistent uphill–just enough that you really start to feel it at about mile four, and it gets just a little bit steeper right before the turnaround. For miles five and six, you start obsessing about how good it will feel to turnaround and head downhill back to the trailhead.

 

Not nearly as bad as the photo makes it look, but, still……ow.

 

As I hit the turnaround, I turned toward the downhill glide…..and the headwind. 😑 An old injury in my hip/IT band area was throbbing. My feet hurt: my socks (a last-minute switch) were too thin and my shoes were filling with rocks. I had made a little distance between myself and the Interval People, though, so I had kept my spirits up….for a couple of miles.

Long, painful, scenic miles.

At mile nine, I decided that the most pressing problem I had that very moment was that my bib was on crooked. At mile ten, I decided to stop and take my shoes off to shake the rocks out. The bottoms of my feet felt like hamburger; the crushed limestone of the trail seemed to be rubbing my feet raw. I sat on a fence post and shook the pebbles out–I convinced myself that it would feel like running on pillows once I shook my shoes clean. I put my shoes back on and continued my pain-filled trundle, promptly discovering that many of the rocks had made their way INTO my thin socks. The couple of minutes it took for my shoe stop were all for naught.
The Interval People passed me and I watched them run/walk away. I would run until my body would involuntarily stop me, and then commence to limping for a bit. In the final mile, the headwind shifted a bit to the south, changing to more of a crosswind; this seemed to be the mental respite I needed to cross the finish line. I finished 169th out of 178 runners. By the time I finished, they were out of the thing I wanted more than anything else in the whole world: chocolate milk. They had pizza for the finishers, but I wasn’t quite up to eating solid food yet. My husband forced me to eat at least one slice before we got in the car.

Taste the pain.

For each day of the DHM, runners receive a smaller finisher medal; if you complete both DHM days, you receive a larger plate that the two medals clip into. As my husband drove me closer to a place I could nap, I discovered that the medal had a typo on it. A fitting, fitting typo.
 

When you see it…

 
 The rest of the day, I could barely walk, and my body was in enormous pain. How the hell was I going to be doing this again tomorrow? 

Of Blisters and Blarney Stones

So, for my first non-trail race of 2016, I kept with my current gameplan of “suck at running.”

The Leprechaun Chase is a 10K through the streets and paved paths of Mahoney State Park. There are two things fun and unique about the race (other than some of the great St. Patty’s Day outfits of some runners):

1. The venue for the race start and after-party is super cool: the restoration hangar at the Strategic Air & Space Museum just next to Mahoney. Runners mingle amongst restored WWII planes, an Apollo Command Space Module, and other super-cool things. Waiting inside the hangar is a pain in the butt for getting a signal on your Garmin, but when the hangar doors open up just before race time, it’s totally worth it.
2. The competition format is that “the lads chase the lasses.” Women get a five-and-a-half-minute head start; the men start after. “Lads” or “lasses”: whoever crosses the finish line first wins a free beer for his/her gender.

We wait in line for the porta potties as friends; we depart for the start line as rivals.

LET IT BEGIN

The race started well enough, but my utter lack of training (or physical ability) became apparent after mile 1. I pushed as much as I could, but decided I would rather take some walk breaks than get injured. I would run until my heart rate would rise to the point that my vision would go a little fuzzy around the edges; I’d take a walk break. I’d run until my legs would give up on me; I’d take a walk break. Generally, the Leprechaun Chase would bring with it a new 10K PR. This year, I finished with one of my worst-ever times for the distance.
But the dumbest is yet to come.

When packing for the race, I struggled to find the right pair of running shoes. I had been running in either my trail shoes (too slick for pavement) or a pair of waterproof running shoes. It was supposed to be relatively warm (about 60 degrees) and my feet overheat easily, so I didn’t want to risk it. I found a couple of pairs that were pretty worn out; one of which helped totally screw up my last half marathon. I had two pairs of newer shoes: one that was pretty comfortable, and one that gave me blisters. I found one pair, but couldn’t remember which category it fell under; I couldn’t find the other shoes, so I took my chances.

In the second mile, I could feel the seam on the inside of my shoe start to rub on the flesh of the insides of my feet. At mile 3, I knew the blisters were beginning, and by the fourth mile, it felt like I had knives nestled in my insoles. I limped the last couple of miles to the end; as soon as I crossed the finish line, I took my shoes off and made my way in my stockinged feet. 

My life is one of glamour.

Though I did not represent my sex well, the women did dominate. For the sixth time, a woman crossed the line first, compared to the men’s two wins.

Ironic that the ladies would dominate in a venue so filled with phallic imagery.

My next 10K is in less than a month; I’m hoping to make a better show of it. Time to bandage up the blisters and get the lead out of my butt.

And keep polishing those selfie skills.

  

Trail Race Meets Butt Luge Competition

Last year, my husband and I celebrated Valentine’s Day the best way we knew how: by running the Raging Bull, a completely brutal six-mile relay race in 12-degree weather. 

Romance done right.

We had such a great weekend, we decided to do it again this year. I booked a cabin at Platte River State Park, and learned that the race had changed venue to Mahoney State Park. This was okay though, because:

1. Mahoney is only a few miles away from Platte
2. Cabins at Platte are cheaper anyway
3. I didn’t know that Mahoney even had hiking trails. How hard could this race possibly be?

We had done a few races at Mahoney in the past, but they were always on the park’s paved roads and sidewalks. Platte River has miles of rugged single track trails through the woods, over creeks, and up and down ravines. There was no way this year’s race would be as tough as last year’s. 

Crazy how someone can simultaneously be so right and so, so wrong.

The good news: at 18 degrees, race day was slightly warmer than last year. The bad news: this was after a week of pleasantly warm (40 degree) days, which melted a significant snowfall that Nebraska had received the week prior. Several inches of snow had melted into many, many puddles on the trail: puddles that had frozen solid when the weekend cold snap hit. Last year we had to contend with a crunchy snowpack; this year, however, our route might as well have been on a skating rink.

The race organizer, Angry Cow Adventures, had provided sufficient warning that there would be ice on the trail and advised the use of screws or Yak Traks to help with footing. I had my trusty trail shoes, which had helped me through previous snowy routes, so I figured I would be fine. We filed out of the warm lodge to line up for the start, and I positioned myself in my usual spot at the back of the pack. 

We took off on the three-mile long loop: I had signed up for the 6-mile race, so I would have to make the loop twice (there is also a 12-mile option, but I am so very bad at trail running, I decide to leave well enough alone). We didn’t get too far before we ended up on some icy bits of trail; I was able to pick my way along the edge of the trail to get more traction, but it was slow going.

Then came the big moment: the moment very early on in the race (or rather, two back-to-back moments) when I knew I would only be finishing a single circuit of this course.

As the trail trended downward, it was exceptionally icy and terrifying. At the time, I had ended up with a small group of women, most of whom were taking the race as seriously as I was. The trail banked down fairly severely; the best way to navigate it without falling to our deaths waste sit on our butts and slide down the ice. 

And the Nebraska women’s butt luge team was born.

We ended up having to traverse this way more than once, and I was growing increasingly convinced that I only needed to experience this route once to truly appreciate it. Then, my decision was sealed in stone about a half mile in, when I slipped on a patch of ice and wiped out. My feet flew out from under me and I landed HARD on my butt, bouncing back to also land on my shoulder. It hurt….. a lot……. but not so much that I couldn’t keep going. I knew I would have some good bruises from that experience.

The bruise on my palm was easier to show off than the one on my butt.

For some reason, my Garmin ate my data for the race, but I know that my first mile took just over 23 minutes. The second mile was just as slow; there were so many extended patches of ice, I ended up walking a good part of the race. The third mile, however, opened up out of the woods and into some of the more open areas of the park. It was a rougher mile in that the wind could now get to us–a strong, cold, cutting wind–but the ice had virtually disappeared and I could remind myself of what running actually felt like. At some points, I still had to blunder through the snow, but I could at least propel myself forward with confidence. My final mile was something over 16 minutes–considerably faster than the first two, but still not much to brag about. 

My 5K road race PR is a 29:23, which is a 9:28 pace, but I’m generally closer to a 10:00-11:00 pace, depending on a zillion different factors. My trail 5K pace is generally anywhere between a 13:00-16:00 pace, depending on the difficulty of the course. Take away the ice, and this year’s Raging Bull course would’ve been challenging, but nowhere near the toughest course I’ve done. Last year, I completed the six-mile race in 1:32. This year, it took me 1:13 to do three miles.

But at least I got a cool shirt, some kickass bruises, and a great story.

Running the plague leg

Leading up to the Lincoln Half, I was running myself ragged: in the days leading up, I went to a technology in education conference; took students to state journalism competition, and attended the graduation of Nebraska State Patrol Camp 56. After six months of long hours, emotional moments, and hardly seeing each other for weeks at a time, it was finally time to celebrate.

 

Reunited and it feels so good.

 
The Saturday after graduation was glorious: we had NOTHING scheduled, other than packet pickup and carbo-loading for Sunday’s Lincoln Half. We went for a little run, ate sushi, went to see Age of Ultron, and went record shopping. It was a fun, low-key, relaxing day. 

Sunday was the half, which I survived. (I’ll spare the details because I already wrote about it.) With the ultra-busy lead up to the race, my beautiful relaxing day and then a brutal race experience, I think my immune system gave up, bitchily slamming the door closed behind it. 

All week, I had terrible cough….but terrible is a severe understatement. Hearing my cough with no other context, one would assume it was the mating call of the dark lord Cthulhu. I couldn’t be sick, though; we had another super awesome race planned for the next weekend: Market to Market Iowa. Other than my lungs sometimes trying to escape my body, I felt fine everywhere else, so I convinced myself I could still run. I chose the shortest possible legs for the relay race and hoped that by some miracle, I would be fine. With a team of seven, I’d only have to run two legs, so that was promising. 

The fact that I kept my friend and teammate Darla awake with my coughing the night before while I was sleeping in her basement was less encouraging.

I survived the night however, and we convened with the rest of our team at the start in Jefferson.

 

That’s a damn fine group of runners, right there.

 
We had eight registered runners, but our ridiculously fast friend Scott bowed out for an opportunity to run for one of the elite teams. We still hauled eight bodies, however; our friend Diane was coming off of an injury and was worried about running too long of a distance, so she was there for moral support. 

I was runner six, so I had a while to try to tame my lungs before it was my turn. I knew I wasn’t going to be breaking any land speed records; I’d just be content to not cough up any blood.

 

It’s always good to set goals.

 
My first leg was just under three miles, so I figured it would be a good  indication of my survival chances. The weather was perfect and it was a straight shot with a downward-trending slope. I ran hard enough to push myself, but I was at nowhere near the pace I know I’m capable of. I coughed a few times, but never hard enough to make me stop running. I started to suffer after the end of the second mile, though, and the final mile was fairly tortuous. I was excited to see the next town come into view: the exchange point would be somewhere there. I saw a bunch of cars on the edge of town and got excited, but was crestfallen when I realized it was people watching little kids’ soccer. After an eternity passed, I could see the exchange point ahead; I tried to kick to the end, but my efforts were pretty futile. I passed on the timing chip and took a break to cough for what seemed like a good ten minutes.

I could tell that my teammates were worried about me pushing myself too hard, but I didn’t want to give up. My second leg, however, was going to be close to five miles long; I knew that I would be excruciatingly slow and felt bad about dragging my team down. We looked at the map and saw something hopeful: the driving route ran parallel to the running route. Diane, who was not comfortable with running a total nine or ten miles throughout the day, was more than willing to pick up whatever miles I couldn’t complete. I’d start my leg, and the team could check on me every mile; when I’d had enough, my pinch hitter would take over.

When I had looked at the map, my leg looked like it trended downhill, but there was a very steady, very slight climb at the beginning. It was starting to heat up, and the wind was picking up (and not in a helpful way). The route was through a community skirting the outside of Des Moines, and I had to pass across several intersections: it was a bit dicey at times. I made it through my first mile, and I felt like it would be a chump-out to only run one. My teammates were waiting for me at the end of the first mile, but I told them I’d do one more. At the end of the second mile, I considered doing one more, but the heat, traffic, wind, and steady incline (on top of having what felt like tuberculosis) had taken their toll. I tapped out at the end of my second mile and Diane, wearing our eighth runner bib, jumped in. I jumped in the car so we could make the exchange and quickly learned I had given Diane one of the nicest stretches in the entire race. The course switched from climbing up alongside a busy highway to a shady, secluded downhill slide through a quiet residential area.

 

You’re welcome.

It worked out for the best. I still felt like a contributing member, and Diane was actually wanting to run when she saw how much fun we were having. Now she was officially a team member and could join us for the team finish, to run across the finish line together.

We ended up finishing our 73ish miles in nine hours and forty-five minutes: a 7:57/mile pace. 

Lung cookies be damned, it was still a good day.

I eventually went to a doctor to be diagnosed with both a sinus and upper respiratory infection, and even after ten days of antibiotics, it still took me a while to feel better–I wouldn’t even consider myself 100% three full weeks later. I need to get back after it, though: Market to Market Nebraska is only a mere four months away…

  
 

When the Heat is On

Four months ago, I set my alarm for the wee hours of the morning to secure my spot in the Lincoln National Guard Half Marathon: a premier race in Nebraska, it sells out in a matter of hours and part of the excitement of the race is getting in.

Training was spotty and inconsistent, but I guess my back-to-back halfs for the Double Half Mary could qualify as my training long run. Last year’s Lincoln stands as my current PR, but I didn’t feel prepared to chase a record; I just wanted to have fun and enjoy a great event.

 

And hang out with 12,000 of my closest friends.

At Lincoln, there are no starting corrals or set wave times: everyone just lines up and the starters let a few hundred runners go every few minutes. Runners are asked to line up according to their race pace…but we all know how that goes. This year, the bibs were color-coded (and somewhat numbered) based on pace, and runners were told to line up by color.

 

There may be some discrepency in athletic ability between my husband and I.

The past two years, temps were in the 40s; this year, forecast for race start was 63 degrees (rising quickly) and humid, with a 20-mph south wind. We’d have a headwind for the first half of the race, and as the day warmed up, the wind would be at our backs. Paying close attention to the forecast, the race organizers had been warning about the warmer temperatures for days–this would be the warmest it had been in a LONG time, and there were major concerns about runner safety.  

This would be my third time running Lincoln, but my husband’s first, so I tried to prep him for some of the highlights, but some of them I had forgotten about until the run:

• Terrible Elvis impersonator cheering everyone on
• The little old lady standing alone in her yard, banging a wooden spoon on a metal pot as a noise maker
• The amazing water stops (cups with lids and straws!)
• People blaring music from their speedboat parked in the driveway
• The gentleman dressed in a tux offering water cups from a silver tray
• The perverse fun of running in a roundabout 
• Dude dressed as a nun high fiving everyone 
• Guy playing “Chariots of Fire” on an alto sax (that one may have been new this year)
• Pet goats
• Jelly beans and oranges at the top of “The Hill”
• Running into Memorial Stadium to finish on the 50-yard line (nothing better)
• The glory of drinking chocolate milk out of plastic baggies at the end

 

My love for thee knows no bounds

 

The headwind at the beginning was tough, but I chugged my way through; then came the looooooong climb up South Street. It isn’t a particularly steep hill, but definitely one that you’ll work up: and definitely one you’ll be ready to be done with. The payoff is worth it, though–a downward-trending run down Sheridan Boulevard, a shaded beautiful neighborhood lined with crowds of cheering people. As I passed down Sheridan, I felt if I could keep a sub-12:00/mile pace, I could consider the race a success.

That was, however, before the sun and temperatures rose higher. As the heat rose, so did my overall min/mile pace. At each water stop, I would take at least two cups: I would drink one to hydrate me and pour one down my back to cool me. A runner ahead of me started to stagger; her partners kept her upright and helped her to the curb. More and more runners were walking; thoughtful citizens turned on their lawn sprinklers and sprayed their garden hoses into the street for runners to pass under. The thought of the runner down started to get into my head–I could only focus on how hot I was getting, and could only picture myself passing out on the pavement. With a couple of miles to go, I saw another runner down, with only a mileish to go, I started to get chills. I tried to replay the past two years through my head: was theare one more water stop in the final mile? I vaguely recalled running Lincoln in cooler weather and thinking how silly it was for people to slow down for a water stop with only a mile left. Was that real, or was it something dreamt up in a dehydrated stupor?? Just past the crest of the final hill, I saw the tables: the glorious, beautiful tables with the saintly volunteers and their concerned faces as they plied us with water. I drank a cup and half of a second, dumping the rest down my back. As a last thought, I grabbed a final cup from the last volunteer in line: the cup had a handful of ice cubes in it. I held a cube against the back of my neck and was discomfited when I failed to feel it at all against my bare skin. I pressed it against the pulse points in my wrists (an effective trick) until it was mostly melted away and I had a half-mile to go.

The last half mile of Lincoln seems to last for two miles; runners run down towards the north end of the stadium, but then turn back south to run the length of the stadium to enter by the south end zone. Even though the stadium was in view, I was starting to question my ability to make it to the end upright. As I neared the south end zone, I was starting to feel lightheaded; I could only focus on getting to the finish line. I came in with a pace group, so I slowed down to at least try for a decent finish photo (pretty sure that’s not gonna be a thing). I received my finisher medal and wandered around the end of the field until a volunteer chased us off the field and into the stadium concourse for water and post-race fuel.

I was somewhat disappointed with my time, but it wasn’t my worst half time–not even my worst Lincoln time.

“It was the not-best of times, it was the not-worst of times.”

My husband, who was running his second-ever half and his first half since  2011, and who had no other formal half training than his regular fitness regimen? PRed by eleven minutes. Since he started toward the front, he waited less than a minute to cross the start line, while it took me 40 minutes. With that, and a race time of close to an hour faster than mine, he had time to hobble back to the hotel, take a shower, and bring our car close.

Also, thoughtfully buy his wife a post-race breakfast burrito

So, half marathon #14 is complete; I missed my PR (from last year’s Lincoln) by 12 minutes, but improved my worst Lincoln time by 18 minutes. The heat affected me so much, I ended up taking two sick days afterward.

But in the wee hours of some cold Dec/Jan morning, I’ll happily set my alarm to register before the race sells out so I can do it all over again.

  

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

Last fall, I decided against doing another full marathon, trading it for the Double Half Mary: two half marathons on two consecutive days. For 2015, I’m considering a fall full, but haven’t made any commitments yet. Meanwhile, due to some new races introduced in the area, the DHM decided to move from a fall race to a spring one. Because why not, my first half of 2015 would be two consecutive halfs.

Day 1

When I did the first day of the DHM last fall, I didn’t know what to expect, so I took it easy. Since I was coming into this year’s race undertrained, I still wasn’t planning on setting any land speed records, but I was planning on doing work.

The couple of hours leading to a race (especially longer distances) are always the most nerve-wracking: did I fuel properly? Did I poop enough? Did I pee close enough to race time so I won’t have to go during? One becomes obsessed with food and bodily functions.

One of the best and worst parts of the Valparaiso run is the supplied port-o-johns. I’ve run a lot of races; I’ve utilized A LOT of porta-potties; I think I have enough experience to be considered a connoisseur. These portable water closets are like the Taj Mahal of shitters. I’m excited when a potty has the dispenser-thingy for hand sanitizer; these babies have a sink with flowing water and a foot pump to flush your waste matter out of sight. So why is this the worst part of this race? The Valparaiso race has two toilets for around 140 runners. This can be rough enough, but with all of the luxuries of the loo, each runner’s visit takes just a smidge longer. About fifteen minutes to race time, I decided I should go to the bathroom one more time. About ten minutes to race time, I realized I had made this decision too late in the game. 

  

Curse you, Amenities!!!

 As the seconds ticked by, the line moved at a snail’s pace. Race start time came as I was the next in line. I jumped into the porta-potty, peed like the wind, and crossed the start line a minute after the gun time: phone, fuel, and headphones gathered in my hands, I had to finish assembling myself literally on the run.

The route, an out-and-back on a Rails-to-Trails course, is not a overly difficult race by any means, but the first half is a consistent uphill climb.

The. Whole. Way.

As I labored up the hill, just as I was starting to flag out, the lead runners started coming by on their way back down. Sometimes an out-and-back can be demoralizing as I see the runners who are obviously significantly ahead of me, but this time, it was energizing. I cheered on the leaders, and the vast majority of them made encouraging gestures back to me (I even got to high five a guy dressed as Superman.) Once I hit the mid-way water stop and the turnaround point, it was absolutely glorious. For the next mile or two, I felt like I was flying. I continued to push, but my glutes and IT band were starting to yell at me. Finally, I could see the top of the grain silo that sat by the trailhead: not much farther. I could see the beams of the truss bridge just on the edge of town; I saw the DHM banner at the finish line; I picked up my pace. The line of sight, however, is tricky: the finish line looks much closer than it really is, and I pushed my way through a very painful quarter-ish mile.

Last year, I completed Day One in 2:35:30; this year’s time: 2:31:11.

One down.

Day Two

The weather forecast for Day Two called for slightly warmer temps, a little more sunshine, and significantly more wind. The wind would be out of the south; the course was another out-and-back, initially heading southward. We would have a strong headwind for the first half, but just like yesterday, at least the more challenging section would be the first to tackle–life would get much easier once I hit the turnaround.

For the next six and a half-ish miles, that’s what kept me going. 

Early in the running season, I had battled some hip flexor pain, but some rest (due to an overly busy schedule) helped me heal. The pain in my glutes and IT band was a new thing, so I had no idea how bad it might get or how I could avoid it. Added to that was the soreness of a hard-earned 13.1 the day before, and added to that was a brutalizing headwind. Again, the lead runners started coming back, and again they gave me new strength (this time, I got to high five Captain America). Again, I became a new person as I hit the turnaround point; the glorious, glorious tailwind was everything I had built it up to be in my head.

When the pain and/or exhaustion and/or tedium of a long run gets to be too much, I get through it with the power of Doing Random Math in My Head. I counted down the miles to go, estimated what pace I would likely keep, and set a goal for a finishing time. Last DHM, my Day Two time was roughly ten minutes slower than my Day One time. If I could finish in at least 2:40, I would improve the time differention between the two days, and I could consider myself a success. 

Just like the Valparaiso route, the final stretch before the finish line is a dirty, dirty trick. I could see the finishing banner at least a half-mile away; I started to kick too soon, but didn’t want to pull back once I began. I thanked the volunteer watching traffic for me, hurled an expletive or two at my husband, and crossed the finish line. I had improved the deficit between the two days by about three minutes.

Got ‘er done.

2014 DHM Day Two: 2:44:28 (8:58 slower than Day One)

2015 DHM Day Two: 2:36:55 (5:44 slower than Day One)

Since I was pretty undertrained, I was more than pleased with how the weekend went. If I can get my act together, my goal for my next DHM will to have a faster time on Day Two.