Plan B. Lemons to lemonade and all that.

Three weeks ago my marathon training was going awesome. I’d just finished up the best first half of a marathon training block I’ve ever had and felt perfectly in control doing it.

It was the week of 10/14, henceforth to be known as Week 1.  I was planning a recovery week with a rust-buster 5k (Run Like Hell) at the end, and then was going to jump back into marathon training the following week, with 5 solid weeks of training and 2 weeks of taper on the horizon.

Week 1, or the clusterfuck of life begins.

In hindsight, Week 1 really wasn’t that bad, it was just the setup for Week 2 and Week 3.

I had to travel for work, and the schedule went a little something like this:

Tuesday: up at 5 am, run an 18 mile workout (in which I kicked all of the ass, thank you very much), eat, dress, shower, head out to a meeting in Hillsboro, head back to the office, head to the airport, two flights with a layover, dinner, arrive at hotel at 10 pm. 17 hour day.

Wednesday: up at 3 am for a 30 minute jog (yes, the jury is out on the stupidity of that), meet group at 4:30, drive 2 hours to site, walk around on site til noon, drive 75 minutes to next site, walk around on site til 5, drive 45 minutes back to home base, dinner, arrive at hotel at 9 pm. 18 hour day.

Thursday: up at 4:30 am for an hour run, BREAKFAST (yay, real food!!), meet group at 7:30 am, sit in a conference room until 5 pm, dinner, two more flights with layover, home from airport at 12:30 am. 20 hour day.

You get my drift. Not enough sleep, not enough real food, legs jammed in airplane seats, legs jammed in cars, legs forced to walk around for hours one day and forced to sit in a conference room all day the next. When Sunday’s race rolled around, my legs were irritable, to say the least. I knew I wasn’t going to have my best race legs under me, and that dampened my enthusiasm for the race, but I also knew I was pretty damn fit, so I did my best to stay positive.

Cue the train.

Anyone who has run a race in downtown Portland is familiar with the trains. Most downtown race courses cross train tracks at one point or another, and you may not be aware of this fact, but trains have the complete right of way 100% of the time. They will not wait, they will not be re-scheduled. They will come when they come, you won’t know when that will be, and you WILL stop and wait for them.

During the Run Like Hell races this year, that meant that the half marathoners got stopped at mile 12, the 10kers got stopped at either mile 1 or mile 3, and the 5kers? Well, we were on the start line, so we never even got started. Of all 3 groups, that should make us the lucky ones, but here’s the kicker: the train was stopped on the tracks for 70 minutes. 70 minutes!! And of course no one thinks it’s going to be more than a few minutes, so at first we just stood there and waited. After about 10 minutes, I left the start area to start re-warming up. I warmed up about 4 different times, and still I was not very warm when the gun went off!

By the time we finally started, it was pretty hard to care that much about racing. My only real goal was to run so hard my legs turned to rubber when I crossed the finish line, but I couldn’t quite get there. I ran a good effort, but had way too much left at the end, and felt recovered about 3 seconds after I finished. My official time was 17:33, and given the short course, that equates to about 17:45 for a real 5k.

So, not awesome, but not too bad under the circumstances.

I’ll take it, I thought to myself, onward and upward. Bring on the last marathon training block and kicking ass at CIM.

Week 2, or where things start to get serious.

More work related travel loomed that week, but it was only a one night trip, so I hoped it wouldn’t be too disruptive. Tuesday morning I got an easy 11 miles in before heading to the airport. I was feeling a little low energy, but no big deal, right? Another long travel day jammed in an airplane window seat, ending in Houston, followed by a 4:30 am alarm Wednesday morning.

Except this time when the alarm went off, I almost ignored it. I did not feel terrific. Not at all.

But I got up, got in a token 6 miles and climbed back into bed for a few minutes. I couldn’t point to any specific problems yet, but something was off. I suffered through another 15 hour day, which blessedly ended with catching an earlier flight home, but the plane ride back to Portland was a nightmare. Flying when you’re just starting to get sick is so painful. The changes in air pressure, the inability to get comfortable, being jammed in another window seat…  it’s torturous. 

Thursday I stayed home from work and took the day off running. I told myself that one day off would take care of everything. One full day of rest and I’d be right back at it the next day. Just a little cold, right?

And you know what? I did feel better when I woke up on Friday morning. I did my morning run and went to work. See? Everything's fine.

Midway through the day, however, my stomach started to hurt. I did my evening run anyway, but it was pretty unpleasant. I immediately flopped on the couch afterwards, wondering what I'd eaten that day to cause such fury in my guts.

I'll just lie here and it'll go away in a few minutes, I thought. Twenty minutes later, I was literally losing my lunch.

I must have food poisoning, I told myself, and I was not too pleased about that idea. I’ve had food poisoning once before, and let me just say, it was a long night.

Well, it was a long night once again, and when the vomiting finally subsided, I was exhausted. I remained almost entirely horizontal all day Saturday, rising once to go out to brunch, which for me involved eating one piece of bread and a few potatoes and pushing the rest of the food around my plate. Anyone who has ever eaten a meal with me should be properly alarmed at the idea of me "pushing food around my plate" rather than shoveling it into my mouth at breakneck speed.

But hey, the good thing about food poisoning is that once it's out of your system, you bounce right back, right?


Week 3, or when I don't bounce right back.

In case you haven't guessed what's coming, it turns out it wasn't food poisoning. I started to suspect this on Sunday night when I had a couple of veggie enchiladas (the most "real" food I'd tried to eat since Friday) and got really sick again. On Monday when I still felt like I'd been hit by a bus, and then Tuesday morning when I learned that I'd passed my "food poisoning" on to someone else (I'm really really sorry, Paul!), it became clear that I had a nasty old virus. And that I would not be bouncing right back.

Week 3 was not very exciting. It alternated between having unsuccessful, ridiculously hard "easy" runs and not even bothering to put my running shoes on. It consisted of not being able to eat much of anything except soup. It consisted of a general sense of malaise and ill will towards humanity. It consisted of a lot of lying on the couch and going to bed at 8:30 pm.

By Thursday evening, though, I began to feel remarkably like a human being again.

Along the way I discovered the absolute best soup in downtown Portland (Savor!!), and by Friday I was celebrating my newfound ability to digest food by consuming everything that wasn't nailed down. I also started running again, stringing together 4 whole days in a row by the end of the week, two of which were double digit runs.

The clouds had lifted. I'm not exaggerating about that part, either. If you have never experienced a stomach virus, you might not know how shitty it feels to try to go through regular life while not being able to eat. And it's perfectly ok if you never know that. In fact, I recommend not ever finding out for yourself. You can just trust me that it sucks.

So what's this Plan B already? (you're probably dying to know)

Despite my disgruntlement with the state of my own little private world, the minute it occurred to me that I might not be able to run CIM, I started working on an alternate plan. Anyone who's a longtime runner knows the power of having something on the horizon.

That's where the Holiday Half comes in.

It’s only one week later than CIM, but it’s a half, so I only need one week of taper (instead of two for a full marathon), which effectively gives me two extra weeks to get my shit together between now and then.

I spent a fair amount of time comparing my illness-adjusted training schedule spreadsheets (one for still running CIM, and one for the Holiday Half), and seeing it on paper made it painfully clear: CIM was out. Just didn't make sense anymore.

My brain adjusted to that reality pretty quickly. I started to see all the positives about running the half in lieu of the full:

• I've never run a half when I've been good and fit. (Until this past summer, my half marathon PR was whatever I ran during the second half of my marathon PR.) So I'll (hopefully) be primed for a new personal best.
• The half is in Portland, aka "easy and cheap".
• Running a half in December probably puts me in a better position for Boston than running a full in December. I'll be recovered faster and less likely to be injured. Also less likely to be burned out on training.
• Switching to the half lets me get in 5 more weeks of real training, but also gives me a little more freedom to change up my workout plan a bit, adjust the focus slightly, hit the track a little more.

Week 4, or the new Week 1.

The hotel and plane reservations have been canceled. The Plan B race registration has been completed. Yesterday I did an actual track workout. And while I'd be lying if I said it felt great, I did run times at the same level as before the sickness, and I did feel less like a robot as the workout went on.

And you know what? I'm excited about the half.

Sometimes change is for the best, even when it's not entirely by choice.

Lacamas Lake half marathon: Sometimes you surprise yourself

I was so relaxed about the race that I slept through the alarm. Twice.
On the third round my brain finally registered an annoyance: It's Sunday. Why is my alarm going off?
....   .....  ....
Oh. I have a race today.

It was that kind of a thing.
I hadn't been on the track in months, and only had 3 solid weeks of 60+ miles under my belt. I'd been doing some transition workouts, though, and I definitely felt like I was on the upswing, even if not very fit yet.

Plus, this was a half marathon. Those are so far out of my wheelhouse I can't really get nervous for them. There's just so much time in that race distance. It's not like a 5k, where you're full out from the gun, and if you have even the slightest mental lapse you can kiss your PR goodbye. In the half, relaxation and patience are what pay off.

And then there was the course. Described as "moderately challenging" by the race directors (a euphemism for slooow), and containing a 3.5 mile stretch on trails, the Lacamas Lake half marathon was not destined to go down in the books as a speedy course. Given my (lack of) fitness, the course, and my intention to run conservatively and use the second half as a good workout, I was feeling like I'd be pleased to run 87-88 minutes. Just getting a decent workout in.

But I still did my usual stuff. Singlet, race shoes, warmup....  usual routine.

In the start area, I ran into Ben, one of my longtime Hood to Coast teammates. It's always nice to see a familiar face before a race. I knew Ben would be sandbagging, and he was, but I told him I would not be falling for his act, I would not be trying to run anywhere near him. (Although I did tell him that I would be sure to tap him on the shoulder if I passed him later on when he was dying.)

As the race went off, my lavender race shoes caught the corner of my eye, and the thought popped into my head that this was my first race since Boston. In general, I haven't really associated the Boston bombings with running to the degree that a lot of people have, so the sentiment caught me off guard. To me the bombings had nothing to do with actual running, the marathon was just an easy target. But whether for running reasons or emotional reasons, I took a second to appreciate how awesome it was to be racing again.

After about 2 blocks, the course turned and ran smack into a steep hill. It was 2 or 3 blocks long, and its presence thinned the field pretty abruptly. I'm not a good climber, but I was probably in about 10th place overall by the top of that hill. A couple guys I'd passed on the way up came back by me in the next minute or two as we all started to settle in, including Ben. I laughed and told him I'd see him around mile 11 and watched him drift off into the distance, reeling people in one by one.

First mile split was 7:15, which I thought was perfect given the hill. I started easing down below 7 minute pace, but made sure to keep very relaxed. Plenty of time. I didn't feel like I was chomping at the bit, but I was fine.

Through mile 4 or 5 was pretty uneventful. The course was more rolling that I expected. There was a stretch or two where you could see pretty far out in front of you. I picked off a couple of guys that were hovering near me but definitely not at a happy effort level for them, and when I looked up I could see Ben way off in the distance and 3 or 4 guys between me and him, spread out pretty evenly.
I gauged them. The first two in front of me would come back, I decided. The third guy? Probably. Ben? I didn't think so.

I seemed to be running around 6:45-6:50 pace in general, but I wasn't paying a lot of attention. Still didn't feel awesome, and thought to myself that I probably would not be killing the second half of the race. Whatever, just getting a good workout in.

Just when the rolling hills were starting to annoy me, we hit a nice long downhill stretch. And we're talking good downhill, the kind you can really use. I held back a bit at first, but it just kept going and it felt so nice, I couldn't resist letting myself run it. I hit a mile marker (6?) and my watch said 6:25. Ok, easy there, Andi, it's a little early, just keep it smooth.

But then I wanted to run. The troublemaker voices in my head had rousted themselves out of their slumber and they wanted more. Running fast feels so much better, they said. Just keep going, it'll be fine.

I tried not to think about it too much. I just relaxed and ran.

But then little things kept happening that would get me excited. Like when a woman in her car, pulled off on the shoulder, yelled out her window at me: Hey! You're the first woman I've seen! Nice job!
(I knew I was the first woman, it was a small race after all, not too hard to keep tabs on people, but still, it's kind of nice when someone else is excited about it.)

And then a water station approached with a bunch of young ladies volunteering, and they were very happy to see the first woman come by. Lots of cheering, and one yelled out: Hey! Are you Andi? I'm Becky! (And that's how I met my Oiselle teammate Becky Leung.)

And then there was a short steep hill and a turn and another bunch of cheering spectators, and that was when I realized we were on the short little out and back segment of the course.
(If you've never raced, this might be counterintuitive, but people racing cheer for each other on the out and back segments. Yes, it gives you the rare chance to see how far ahead or behind your competitors are, but it's also energizing to cheer and be cheered for.)

My point is, I wasn't slowing back down. I didn't want to.

I saw the lead guy coming back at me, then the next guy, then Ben (go Ben!), another guy, then the 3 guys I was still gunning for. I was in 8th place.

As we hit the 180 degree turnaround, I started stepping on it a little. I was having fun. I had energy. When people were cheering for me, I was smiling and saying thank you. I was having a ball. It was time to see what I had.

The next two guys in front of me were not having as much fun, I don't think. One was a young kid, and when I sidled up next to him, he said: Where'd you come from? I paused just long enough to smile and say, I'm trying to negative split, we'll see how it goes. And I took off.

My next mile (mile 8?) was just under 6 minutes. Oops. Maybe a little early to be running that fast. As we hit the trail section, I dialed it back a notch and just started cruising along. I was happy to be in the trail section, oddly enough, because it was the only part of the course I had run on before that day. The trail was a little bit rolling, but very run-able in general. Flat for a trail, in other words.

At the entrance to the trails, the next guy was in my sights. I used him to help me in my efforts to dial it back. I stayed about 10 feet behind him for a minute or two, just feeling myself out, but next thing I knew I was pulling up next to him. I'm not sure if he sped up or if I slowed down, but we ran pretty close to each other for a few minutes. I was being very careful not to press too hard just to get rid of him, and in fact I thought maybe we'd end up racing together for quite a while, but by mile 9 he started to fall back.

And then I was alone.

The next couple of miles were just me and the trail. It was great, though. I was just flying along by myself, the only sound was my own breathing. I wondered at one point if anyone else would come back to me, but I didn't really care. I didn't feel like I needed someone to chase at that point. At 10 miles I did see a race official, who said: about 5k to go, as I approached. I responded: well, that seems kind of far. He laughed and said I looked great.

I really had no idea how fast I was running anymore. My Garmin was beeping mile splits at weird places, so I'd just glance down at the pace reading once in a while. It usually said 6:20-something, and I figured that was probably in the ball park.

Just past 11 miles, the course pops back out onto the road, where.....   you guessed it, the half marathon joins up with the second half of the 5k course. And the 5k is still in progress. Of course.

And there was a downhill. So now I was running what turned out to be sub 6 pace, and overtaking runners who were running 25-30 minute 5k pace. And this is all taking place on one lane of road. As you might expect, I scared the bejesus out of some of those runners. I tried to stay wide as much as possible, but there's only so much you can do.

With the downhill and the adrenaline from bobbing and weaving through the crowds, mile 12 came in under 6 minutes. Mile 12 to 12.25 saw the adrenaline abruptly disappear and for the first time in the race, I was actually tired. I envisioned a one mile death march to the finish, but then, unexpectedly, my energy evened back out. My internal ship had been righted, and with another downhill at the finish, my last mile was around 5:50.

As I came flying around the corner to the short 2 block finish straightaway, I felt pretty damn good. I was stoked, to be honest. But when I saw the finish clock, I was just confused. It said 1:24:something. Crossing the line and slowing to a stop, I squinted down at my watch.

My watch agreed with the clock! What the....? Did I really just run 84 minutes for a half?

I stood there in the finish area, and while my brain tried to process this, I realized that no one at the finish understood that I had run the half marathon and not the 5k. The finish ladies were standing there with the half marathon medals, but they were just looking at me. And when I had crossed the line, they hadn't announced that I was the first woman.

I was still pondering how I'd managed to run 84 minutes when I'd only been on 89 minute pace at halfway, when finally one of them said to me: did you run the half or the 5k?
Half, I replied, and she turned to relay that information to the other guys at the finish. Maybe they thought I was still standing there because I was dying to have a medal, but really I was just so giddy at my 84 minute "training run" half marathon that I didn't know what to do with myself.

It kind of made me think, hey, maybe I really can run a decent half marathon sometime. If I was ready. And if it was a fast course.

You know, sometime. As in, some other time. For now, just get me to Hood to Coast, baby.

Bring it, slug hunters.

like spinach for Popeye

Running with low iron is an exercise in beating your head against the wall. It will make you forget everything good about the sport and make you contemplate hanging up your running shoes. (For good this time, I mean it!) Racing will seem like a distant, fond memory, and feeling refreshed after a run will feel like an impossible dream.

I should know, because about once a year I find myself doing all of the above. Don't ask me why, after 5 years of this, there's a delay in my perception and understanding of what's going on. Why isn't it the first think I think of when things start to go awry?

Maybe it's because iron is a sneaky bastard. Iron doesn't just wake up one day, tell you it's all finished here and that it's time to move on. Oh no. It sneaks around behind your back, quietly inching its way out of your body, little bit by little bit, leaving you with the feeling that you simply must be going crazy. You just need a little more sleep, right? Maybe you need to eat more? Maybe you're under too much stress at work? Or, (gasp), maybe you're just getting OLD.

Maybe. Or maybe you just need some freaking iron, smart girl. You know, that stuff you run out of every year? You remember, the brown liquid in the IV bag slowly dripping in to your arm? The reason you went out and found yourself a new PCP that has a clue about runners?

Yeah, that stuff. The good stuff.

After working really hard with my PT in May and June to get my Boston biomechanical glitch back under control, but still feeling like crap on my runs, I finally got my iron checked.
You can guess the results.

I've now had my two IV iron infusions and the difference is astonishing. As usual. I don't know why it's still astonishing to me when it happens every year, but there it is.

Having iron doesn't make you fit, of course, but it makes it so you can train, and that first run after the iron starts to sink in is like magic. It's like lifting a hundred pound weight off your shoulders that you didn't even know you were carrying. It's like being vindicated when everyone thought you were crazy. (See? I knew running could be fun.)

So yes, I wasted some time in May and June, struggling along at 40-50 miles per week with no energy and no workouts in sight. I had to cancel the summer race plans that I'd been excited about and pretty much throw out the training schedule I'd written.
But now that I'm starting to feel like myself again, I can't say that I care too much. My plans will get revised, new and exciting races will get added to my schedule, and I will love running again.

(That's right, Hood to Coast, I'm looking at you. I believe we have some unfinished business from last year.)


Oh, and one more thing: if you're a distance runner and your doctor tells you that ferritin above 11 is just fine, do yourself a favor and start looking for a new doctor.

Boston - Just the Race Report

It's hard to separate Boston the race from Boston the bombing.

I'm not too inclined to write much about Boston the bombing. I understand the shock and the general thirst for information. We all want answers, we all have questions, we are all horrified by the events we've now seen on tv approximately a million times over. But we all also deal with these kinds of tragedies in our own unique ways, and my ways lean private. I have no startling revelations to offer, no new insights, no inspirational speeches to make, just my own shock and anger to sift through with close friends and family.

Which leaves Boston the race. I'll give it a try.

Boston the race wasn't good for me. It wasn't good for me from the get-go. I struggle even now to put it into words, but the closest I've come so far was on our return flight when I said to Lou Karl: at no point in the race was I having fun. Not on the start line, not in the opening miles, not in Wellesley, not cresting Heartbreak Hill, not seeing the Citgo sign, not making those final turns onto Boylston, and not crossing that giant blue finish line. There was no joy in my heart that day, no pleasure in running.

As many of you runners can imagine, that's a pretty hard thing to wrap your head around. That's different than a bad race, different than an off day. How could I be at one of the coolest races in the world, at the end of arguably the best training cycle of my life (save for the last few weeks), and not be able to experience it? Which screw has to be loose for that to be possible?

You know, immediately after the race, I couldn't have answered that.

But you see, despite my love of training plans, spreadsheets and chasing of clocks, the real reason I keep running is the way it feels. The way it feels to run when you're really fit. If you've been there (and I'm sure a lot of you have), you know what I mean. So while I may get a kick out of chasing prs, the real thrill is flying down the street at high velocity while barely breathing, knowing that you could keep going at that speed for miles, feeling your body fire on all cylinders like a finely tuned machine, your legs running along effortlessly beneath you...  it's addicting, that feeling. It's what makes me keep coming back after injury, after iron deficiency, after plain old disappointment.

The last few weeks I watched helplessly as my body went from that most highly functioning running state to a collection of disparate and ill-functioning body parts. There was the biomechanical glitch on my right side and the subsequent desperate attempts to beat it into submission, there was the emotionally exhausting gradual demise and subsequent death of my cat Jack, and finally there was my inability to sleep through the night without bolting awake around midnight in an unsubstantiated panic.

You're supposed to arrive at the starting line of a marathon strong, calm, and rested. I stood in Hopkinton on Monday strung together with hope and rainbows.

So maybe when things didn't go well, the causes should have been obvious. Or maybe not.

Here, look at my splits:

5k: 21:22 (6:54)
10k: 21:09 (6:49)
15k: 21:08 (6:49)
20k: 21:11 (6:50)
25k: 21:12 (6:50)
30k: 21:47 (7:02)
35k: 22:53 (7:23)
40k: 24:15 (7:49)
42.2k: 10:18 (7:35)

If I didn't know any better, I'd say those were the splits of someone who was shooting to break 3 hours, went out at goal pace, couldn't quite hang, and crashed and burned at the end.

And that's not what happened.

I was shooting for 2:55, aiming for a slightly conservative first half, and planning to run the last 5 miles at 6:25-6:30 pace. I'd been doing it that way on my hilly long runs, so I knew I had it in me. The ease with which I found myself dropping into sub-6:30 pace at the end of my long hard training runs was my secret weapon. I was going to get to 21 miles with my legs completely intact and with gas in the tank, and then I was going KILL IT. I was going to hit the jets and fly into Boston like the rest of the race was standing still. Downhill finish? Bring it. I was so ready.

Only it didn't quite work out that way either.

Because, despite the Herculean efforts of both me and my physical therapist in those last couple of weeks, we never really got the glitch to go away. We minimized it for sure, and I seemed to be getting closer and closer to my natural running form every day, and who knows, perhaps another week would have been enough to get rid of it completely, but close is just not good enough for a real race effort. You can't use all of your fitness when your body is tied up. You can't let yourself fly when you have a kink. You can run just well enough to make yourself wonder what the heck is going on, why your legs can't quite get comfortable at an effort where you're not even breathing hard, why everything is just a little bit harder than it should be.

I was of two minds about this on race day (when am I ever NOT of two minds?). Part of me knew that everything was not going to be ok. But another part said, give it a chance, you never know, don't be so negative..  etc.

For the first half of the race, it was deny, deny, deny. Who cares that at the same time my aerobic system was so at ease I could have been napping, my limbs were like rusty old gears trying to find a groove? Who cares that I was running this big beautiful event with a permanent crease in my forehead as I waited for my body to loosen up? Who cares that while trying to run as calmly as possible, just under the surface I was extremely ANGRY?

I did what I could do. I ran the most conservative first half I could muster without putting myself totally out of reach of a decent time.

So when I hit the halfway point (in just over 89 minutes) and still felt not-tired-but-not-good, my positive outlook began to waver. This wasn't working. I stepped lightly on the gas, thinking maybe I was just uncomfortable because I needed to open it up a little, get out of the rut. The increased speed felt better for a few minutes, but I think it was mostly a mental boost. It felt so good to finally be doing something instead of just coasting and waiting, you know?

By 14 miles, I couldn't maintain the denial any longer. Things were not improving. Not only would I not be running a pr that day, I wasn't even going to be in a position to try for one. That realization really sucked, and I had a dark couple of miles there. With denial out the window, I was free to sink into self-pity and despair. In fact, I sunk in there so deep and wallowed around for so long that the next thing I knew we were at 16 miles.

16 miles...  ? And that woke me up. The Newton hills!! The stupid Newton hills that everyone's always talking about. Four consecutive hills ending at mile 21. And then self pity returned to anger. Fuck the Newton hills! If I was going down, it was not going to be on those ridiculous hills. I hate nothing more than being a cliche.

Now properly motivated with a suitable enemy, I started to picture a heroic finish in which I snuck in under 3 hours to salvage a miserable race. Stop being such a baby, I thought to myself, remember how Bill Aronson ran in LA a few weeks ago. He didn't give up when he knew he wasn't going to pr. 

Up those hills I charged, and that was the closest to good I felt the whole race. Unfortunately, while it felt great in the short term to blast up the hills, it was also the final straw for my nascent glitch issues. By mile 21, glutes and high hammies were in full effect, pain radiating down my right side. I was quickly reduced to a shuffle in the very spot I'd been planning to launch my closing assault. That hurt. Thoughts of squeaking in under 3 hours were replaced by deep consideration on the least painful way to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The last 5 miles passed in the painful slowness specific to falling apart in a marathon. I stopped caring and just kept going.

When I finally crossed the finish line, the clock read 3:05. I wasn't particularly tired, but definitely in pain. I limped on ahead as fast as I could, just wanting to get out of there. All the nice volunteers with big smiles, saying, congratulations! You finished the Boston marathon! They were so genuine, so well meaning, I plastered a smile on my face and did my best to return their good cheer. I didn't come to Boston to finish, I came to race, but that's my problem, not theirs.

And hey, there's always 2014.

Shamrock 5k Race Report: Or, When Your Confidence Gets a Smackdown

Since my last race, the fabulously successful Fanconi 5k, I've had 4 weeks of killer training.
For those 4 weeks, I averaged over 85 miles a week, and ran a string of (for me) unprecedented workouts, culminating with a hilly 20 mile run at an average 6:45 pace. I was on such a roll I was starting to scare myself.

Unfortunately, the calendar shows FIVE weeks, not four, between the Fanconi 5k and the Shamrock 5k.
And that fifth week, this past week, well, it wasn't pretty.

I knew that 4 week block would be the most intense block of training for this cycle. I knew I would have some serious miles and stress in my legs by the end of it. I also knew there was a distinct possibility that I would have to dial it back a bit towards the end, but I figured if I made it through to that fifth week, the cutback week, I'd be fine.
So when I ended those 4 weeks on the high note of that crazy 20 miler, I thought I was golden. I started entertaining the idea of a 5k pr, even though it was the Shamrock Run, my nemesis 5k. A 5k pr at age 38, I could practically taste how good that would feel.

So. What the hell happened? How did I find myself with flat legs from the gun? Why was I in head down survival mode by 8 minutes in? Why did I cross the finish line in about 18 minutes flat, some 30 seconds slower than I knew I could run?

Well, it wasn't the race itself, and for once I'm not blaming a mental lapse. I knew my legs were heavy, but in the spirit of blind optimism, I went out at the pace I should be running anyway, because you never know, right? Legs can loosen up, sometimes things aren't as bad as they seem, etc etc. I put myself right where I needed to be through the first mile, and tried gamely to hang on.

But by 1.5 miles, the two women I should have been competing with (2nd and 3rd place, since the race leader was long gone) had put a sizable gap on me and it was yawning wider by the step. The voices in my head knew by then that they would win this round, however, by replacing the spirit of blind optimism with an angry stubbornness, I kept them partially at bay and rallied to at least hold my position in 4th place, because damn it all to hell if I wasn't at least going home with a Shamrock backpack!

Lest I make this sound too much like a complete mystery, let's return to that 5th week of training.

What should have been a giveaway week (one workout midweek, 25% reduction in mileage overall) turned into a physical and mental wrecking ball. That one mid-week workout? Didn't finish it. The last time I had to cut a workout short? It's been so long I can't even remember. I'm a steady-as-she-goes type of trainer. I don't do anything crazy, I just show up and do what I need to do. Consistency is key. So pulling out of a workout was tough. Don't get me wrong, it was 100% the right thing to do at the time. The truth is, I hadn't been taking care of myself the first half of the week. I wasn't recovered, and so there was no point in pushing through the workout. It was smart to pull out.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Despite the reduced mileage over the next 3 days, I had no zip in my legs. Typically, when I throw a cutback week in the middle of high mileage training, I'm bouncing off the walls by the end of it. Far from that this time.

Looked at through that lens, I guess the bad race was to be expected. Doesn't make it any easier, though. In one week I went from feeling invincible, with no doubt that I was super fit, to carrying around my wounded ego in a tiny padded box. Confidence? What confidence?

Now, before you say it, I KNOW that one bad week is not the end of the world. I also know that the training plan I already have in place for the next 4 weeks will most likely be perfectly fine to get me back to where I need to be, and I know that as long as I take care of myself, everything will be just fine.

But that doesn't mean it won't be a huge relief when I can actually feel it in my legs.
Then it will be time to fluff up the confidence and move on.

Oh, and you know what? Now I'm just going to have to set that 5k pr at age 39. Take that, Shamrock.

Kicking ASS: Fanconi 5k Race Report

If you ask me how a race went (and I don't recommend doing this unless you've got some serious time on your hands), there's a wide range of potential responses, from "man, it was rough" to "pretty damn good" to everything in between. A race is just a race, after all. It's only one day, and most of them are just good feedback on your training.

But every once in a while, your race rolls around and you SHOW UP. Maybe the planets are in alignment, maybe you've just had an awesome block of training, or maybe you're just having a rough week and your need to punch someone in the face gets expressed on the race course, but when the gun goes off, that race is yours to do with what you will. You own it.

This morning I had one of those races.

It's pushing 3 months since the last time I raced. Since then, I took a break, transitioned my way back, knocked out a few 80+ mile weeks, and lost 5 pounds. In short, I am feeling GOOD. I'm so in the groove right now that I barely even thought about today's race this past week. When I did finally think about it, I didn't experience the usual sense of nervous dread I get when faced with a rust buster 5k, but instead found myself excited. Because I knew. I knew things were right again and I wanted to see what I could do. I wanted proof that it was time to train faster. I wanted to show myself that I don't yet know my limits.

This morning, however, I was anything but calm. I was about to jump out of my skin, I was so nervous.  All the voices started chiming in: what if I'm not as fit as I think? what if I give up when it gets hard? what if all this work hasn't produced anything? 

I try to stay away from the race start area as long as I can, since it's nearly impossible to avoid looking around for fast people and wondering about your competition. Because when it comes down to it, that stuff just doesn't matter. I will use any fellow human being to pull myself along in a race, but in the end, all I care about is covering the distance as fast as I possibly can.

But I digress.

At the start line of the 5k, after inadvertently assessing my fellow racers (see above), an errant thought popped into my head: holy crap, could I win this thing outright? I shoved that aside, but it was not a happy thought. One of the benefits of road races for women is that even if you're leading the women's race, you will still have men around you to key off.

About a hundred meters into the race, I passed the first guy and took the lead. And I passed him like he was standing still. The voices: What am I doing? Am I being totally stupid? Why am I running this fast in the first mile of a 5k?

There was no heeding the voices, though. I was out of there. I had so much nervous energy I could barely contain myself. I told myself to settle in and be calm, and tried to let the first mile pass in a comfortable blur. I quickly came up on the backs of the walkers from the 8k and 12k, which had started a few minutes before us (don't get me started on that), and I wondered if this was going to be a repeat of the dodging and weaving from Run Like Hell back in October. Please not today, I thought.

Despite my efforts to hold back and remain calm, when I hit the 1 mile mark my watch read 5:27. 5:27!! I was supposed to be shooting for 5:45 pace! You want a shot of adrenaline? See the number 5:27 on your watch at the 1 mile mark while you remember that you ran the first mile of your 5k pr in 5:31. I spent the next minute or two in a state of heightened alert as my brain tried to process what the hell was going on. Is the mile marker in the wrong place? Am I really running that fast?

As I rounded the turn at the 1 mile mark, that same shot of adrenaline made me fling myself out into the road. This race is small enough that they don't officially close the streets, and people are expected to run on the sidewalks. But you know what, race directors? I'll stay on the sidewalks when you wise up and start the short races first, because if you think I'm going to go barreling through the back of a longer race while confined to a sidewalk, you're nuts.

So now I was out in the street, flying along on my adrenaline high, and my race-addled crazy-fest brain started spitting these gems at me: what if the streetcar comes? what if they disqualify me for running in the road? will the guys behind me run in the road too or am I out here by myself? And where are the guys behind me anyway?

Just when my brain might possibly explode, I hit the turnaround for the 5k. (The course marshalls at the turnaround were not expecting me. Ha!) Then I crossed over to the other side of the road and....  silence. Now there was no one around. Every course marshall was surprised to see me. Maybe this is what happens all the time for guys leading races, but it was new for me. Usually if you're one of the women leaders, you'll hear a few encouraging "yay, first women" type of cheers, but all I was getting was a kind of stunned silence, with the occasional belated cheer. Maybe they were wondering if they had missed the men going by?

At first, the quiet and having the course to myself calmed me down. For a minute or two there, all was right with the world. I just ran. It was nice.

But then, as these things go, I realized I was approaching the 2 mile mark and things were going to start getting ugly. My brain started to panic in advance of any actual need to panic. My breathing started to get all crazy in anticipation of when it would get all crazy. This will not do, I thought, you need to calm down, Andi. 

This didn't quite seem to be working, so I tried it again, only I said it out loud, almost out of frustration: calm down, Andi.

And it actually kind of worked. Huh. Happily surprised by the effectiveness of this new technique, I continued to talk to myself with increasing regularity throughout the last mile. I didn't need any more calming after that, though, in fact I needed to get my ass in gear, focus and not get lazy. To fight back, in other words. So I came up with the extremely clever motivational phrase: Come on! and it's equally witty variation: Come on, Andi!

Every time I started to quit, felt an overwhelming sense of doom approaching, or thought about just phoning in that last half mile, I gave myself a Come on, Andi! in whatever tone of voice seemed most appropriate (disdain, encouragement, gentle nudge, swift kick in the behind). And it worked. I had some rough moments, but I did not fold.

About a hundred meters from the finish I was filled with an overwhelming desire to just stop right there. I mean, who needs the stupid last 100 meters anyway, right? I was flailing all over the place, trying, with little success, to pull a sprint out of my marathon training. It was not pretty. (Safe to say I won't be buying those race photos.)

But no one caught me. And when I crossed the finish line and looked at my watch, I was so happy I was in danger of crying, even though I knew instantly that the course was short (again).
Was it a really good race? Definitely. Was it a 17:10? Noooo. Not a chance.

I'd say it was somewhere between 17:35-17:45. But most important in my mind is that I went out and owned every inch of that race. And not because I won. I owned it because I didn't wait to see what it had in store for me, but instead reached in and took what was rightfully mine.

And the next scary thing? Trying to do it again next time.

Geeking out on marathon training

This is what happens when you cross an engineer with a runner:

You don't just get a Tuesday workout schedule and a Saturday long run schedule, you get a color-coded spreadsheet outline of a training season, which might look very specific, but is actually ripe for tinkering and adjusting.

It has always irritated me how poorly the 7 day calendar week works with a good training schedule. Maybe there are real people out there in the world that typically only need one day of recovery between workouts, but I am not one of them. I need two. I think most people need two. And I also need my longest runs to be on the weekend. And while I'm at it, I definitely do not want to do a workout on a Friday. I'm useless on Friday nights. An easy run and relaxing is about all the effort I can muster. 

So, after much fussing around, I arrived at the following logical conclusion: a two-week microcycle. Ta-da! Problem solved. Ok, technically, you still have to do a workout every other Monday (almost as bad as Friday, but not quite), and every other weekend the long run is on Sunday instead of Saturday (and EVERYONE knows that it's way better to do your long runs on Saturday in order to have some enjoyment of the weekend), but...  wait, is this 2 week thing even a good idea?

Well, who knows, but I'm finally giving it a try.

I am now in the throes of training for Boston. I just got through my first Monday, Thursday, Sunday workout week, which culminated with a 20 miler. Closing an 87 mile week. Highest mileage week in two and a half years.

Oddly enough, the week was aweomse. I killed it on the 20 miler. I expected fatigue and instead got smooth, effortless cruising at a (long run) pace faster than I have run since 2009.

It's hard to explain how awesome that run felt after two years of injuries and illness and never quite getting back on my game. I want to bask in that feeling without letting it go to my head. Jack Daniels has famously said that injuries sometimes keep a runner going, because it gives them a reason to come back, something to fight against. I couldn't agree more, but it also makes you really appreciate how amazing it feels to be firing on all cylinders. In 2009 I felt like a finely tuned, high caliber running machine, and I thought I might never feel like that again. Now I think...  maybe, just maybe...

Here's to lucky 2013.