Further Thoughts on My Houston Half-Marathon

I emailed my friend MT, the voice of Dump Runners Club and one of my Green Mountain Relay teammates, to ask his opinion and analysis on my half-marathon splits. I thought I’d raced poorly since I missed a negative split, and wanted his opinion as to what I could have done differently. I’m sharing the email he sent me, because I think it’s a very helpful way to build a race strategy for a half-marathon. Also, he makes me sound like a racing genius. I pasted my splits so you can see what he’s talking about.

TK,

Garmin-

Okay I did some serious analysis. First of all, it was damned near perfect as far as I am concerned. (even if it it didn’t feel that way). As you may remember, I judge a half in 3 phases….the first 5 miles, the second 5 miles and the final 5k. You ran very evenly the entire race. Your first 5 miles averaged 7:53, second 5 was 7:51 and final 5k was 7:54. BTW I assumed the last 1.1 was 1.1 and not 1.25 as your watch showed. I am sure you ran more than the 13.1 distance but that is the race. This is based on Garmin.

Mat(t) Times-

Next, I looked at your splits and determined that you were actually going faster over your last 5k than then what the above shows. So I estimated the last 1.1 based on splits. Then I put the “extra” time evenly divided back into the previous 12 miles. Here are my alternate splits for you, First five miles avg=7:58, second 5 = 7:56 and final 3.1 was 7:40! This is more closely with what the mat times say. Which mean you have a super fast finish and were increasing your pace at every phase of the race.

I think your mat times are what happens and shows why you ran so well. Congrats.

 -Matt

p.s. Sorry if this is confusing

How awesome is that? And look at who was smiling at me from the in-flight magazine on the way home. 

2012 Olympic Marathon Trials: Photos

The leaders in the women's race, coming off Mile 5 along Memorial Drive.

For some reason, I didn’t get any photos of the men’s race. My friend @tejasrunnergirl took a fantastic one of their butts, which you can view here (along with her fantastic blog report of being my primary support crew at the Houston Half-Marathon.) Do click through and observe the wondrous spectacle that is the rear view of male marathoners.

The women, turning into their first out and back along Waugh Drive, about a quarter mile short of Mile 7.

The women pulling away from Mile 13 along Memorial Drive, you can pick out Kara and Janet Cherobon-Bawcom (5th place finisher)

Desiree Davila, Shalane Flanagan, and Kara Goucher crank into Mile 22 along Memorial Drive

Deena Kastor, heading up Waugh Drive with about 3.5 miles to go. She would finish 6th.

Aramco Houston Half-Marathon

It had been a long time since a half-marathon had been my full-stop goal race. Wait: I must self-correct. The distance hasn’t ever been the specific focus of my training–I’ve always leaned on it as a fitness test leading into a full marathon. Standing in my corral on Sunday morning, I felt set apart. I wondered how many of the other runners had trained as hard and as specifically as I had for this race. No doubt, I was being judgemental when I assumed most of them had signed up to run it for fun, or as a longer training run. 

After a fabulously uninterrupted six hours of sleep (no doubt, the small and warm company of @tejasrunnergirl‘s dog Lola helped with that), I awoke at 4 AM, immediately ate a bowl of highly-salted oatmeal, and then moved methodically through the rest of my race-morning timeline. Body Glided, hydrated, sunblocked, bibbed and bundled, by 4:50 I was in the car, with @tejasrunnergirl at the wheel. Bless her soul for waking in the middle of the night to shuttle me to the start–whenever I’d set out on four wheels this weekend I ended up hopelessly lost. (There must be some preexisting and unresolved bad karma between me and Houston.) @tejasrunnergirl dropped me off with a hug and a big, encouraging smile; I arrived at the George R. Brown early enough that I could attend the 5:30 AM Catholic mass.

While my relationship with God (or the Universe, the Cosmic Lifeforce, or whatever you want to call it) has gotten much stronger this year, I remain quite uneasy about organized religion, including the one within which I was raised. After so many years away, the rituals and vocabulary seem strange and rigid to me. But I decided that I wasn’t against giving a little thanks to a Catholic God before I headed out to conquer the concrete streets of Houston. It ended up being a beautiful gathering. The priest had given mass at the Houston Marathon for over a decade, so in a way he was one of us runners. I was moved by sharing the handshake of peace knowing that everyone around me was about to undertake the same momentous running effort. I also took the opportunity to turn the results of my race over to God, and asked to be satisfied no matter the outcome. That’s my way of taking out an insurance policy against bitter disappointment, just in case everything went terribly wrong out there. Note: this prayer did not lessen the huge amount of pressure and tension I felt.

The rest of the pre-race period couldn’t have been timed any better. I checked my bag, found two blocks to run a 10-minute warm-up, had some quality time in the port-a-potty, then headed to the corral. There are seeded corrals in Houston, but they aren’t broken down by pace–I still had to weave my way up to somewhere between the 7′s and the 8′s. I stretched, told myself to relax, used the port-a-potty one last time (love when they have them in the corral), and tried to ease my game face into something a little bit friendlier than the frown I knew I was wearing. No dice. This is when I surveyed the crowd and wondered who else was out here with serious intent today.

After a few absurd speeches (Bill Rodgers, Frank Shorter, the mayor) and a scarily enthusiastic prayer (personally, I don’t think God gives a shit how our races go, but whatevs, Preacher), we were off. I was feeling rested but under pressure. Prepared but not necessarily kicky, which might have been because I felt so tight, all my muscles, everywhere.

I knew the first mile was going to be the slowest simply because it was crowded, but when Little G beeped 8:11 I freaked out (I was aiming for 8:05) and sped up a bit too much. My arms were still chilled by the cool breeze. Mile 2 came in at 7:42. That’s when I started repeating the mantra The road will open before you. I can’t say I was feeling especially strong or fluid at this point. I was still warming up, my breathing felt ragged. In fact, whenever I felt relaxed and comfortable, Little G would show me that I was running slower than PR pace and I’d have to push it again. Although the miles did click by quicker than I’d expected, at no point in this race did I just feel like I was cruising. I suppose if you’re chasing an ambitious PR, that’s about right, but it worried me some, and I was constantly doubting if I could maintain the pace. I didn’t know, so I just kept pushing, mile after mile.

My 5k split was 24:42, or a 7:55 pace (of course I didn’t know this at the time). Not bad considering Mile 1 was 17 seconds under that. I had the niggling thought that I might have gone out too fast, but I was working with the knowledge that 7:55 was the slowest I could run and meet my goal, and as a carrot I’d set Little G’s virtual partner at 7:50. Feeding the hunger for more speed was @tejasrunnergirl’s remarkably optimistic battle cry of “1:40,” which she had been repeating to me all week long. I didn’t know my mat splits until after the race,  on the course I just had the autolap mile reports from Little G to work with. I was dismayed to see that even by Mile 3 I was over a tenth of a mile up on the course distance, which meant that I’d have to run even faster than Little G said to meet my goal time.

Somewhere around Mile 6 my left foot started to really hurt me. You know, the fascia. Pounding the concrete roads in my racing flats was aggravating the tightness that I’d been keeping at bay through acupuncture and massage-by-golf-ball the past few weeks. Each time I hit a timing mat, I’d think OK @BklynRunner, do your thing! She’d generously agreed to tweet out my splits for my friends. I didn’t know it at the time, but the sub-8 splits I laid down those last five miles gave me a 10k PR (49:27, over a minute improvement) in the middle of the Houston Half-Marathon. (That’s kind of hot, right? 2 PRs in one race?) I kept telling myself I’d done all those fast finish workouts, into headwind, uphill. I decided to go for broke and keep pushing hard. I ate a Hammer gel with some sips of Gatorade; I had trouble catching my breath during the “snack;” this slowed me down and Mile 7 dropped to a 7:57 pace (from 7:49).

The volunteers, by the way, were all so kind. Whenever I said thank you, they all responded with words of encouragement. It was very refreshing to be around such polite, happy people.

Then I saw @tejasrunnergirl, who was waiting for me close to Mile 7. The entire mile leading up to me spotting her went by in a flash because I was focusing on finding her–so grateful for that distraction. When she saw me she went bonkers cheering, there was jumping, waving and shouting involved, plus this awesome sign. Clearly @tejasrunnergirl knows what’s what. I told her my pace (7:50′s) which I hadn’t yet realized had dropped by practically ten seconds.

I struggled the next three miles to drop the pace back down to the 7:50 range. Little G tells me Miles 8 and 9 were 7:54 and 7:55. I was a nearly a quarter of a mile off the race’s mile markers, so I knew I was tracking with less speed against the clock. I felt in my bones that I wasn’t going to negative split, which for me is the sign of a race poorly executed. (After much mind-bending math more than 24 hours after the race, I can confirm that I did not run a negative split. The first 6.55 miles took me 51:36; the second took me 52:42.) By this point my left foot was hurting so much that when I’d roll it along the road in my stride, I told myself the massage felt good. I should have raced in my trainers on that concrete–but there’s a lesson learned the (literally) hard way. Also, my lower back was starting to talk back, and I suspected I might be dehydrated.

Mile 10 was where @tejasrunnergirl was meeting me next. Perhaps it was out of vanity (I didn’t want such an incredible athlete to see me hurting or slowing down) but I picked it up to clock a 7:44 there. This time she was holding up her “Toenails Are Overrated” sign, which I could see from a mile away since it was flourescent green. She told me I was looking good but I was feeling the strain. I admitted to her that my foot hurt bad. Right before I saw her, I’d crossed the 14.5k mats in 1:12, or a 7:51 pace.

Mile 11 was painful (7:50); and in Mile 12 I gritted my teeth and pulled out 7:43–but Little G’s splits were still 0.15 of a mile behind the course markers, so I knew I was about 4 or 5 seconds behind the pace Little G was telling me.  The out and back between miles 7 and 11 seemed endless, but it was broken up by @mdwsterNYer catching me on the way back with a big shout. I barely acknowledged her as I was already hurting but I was so grateful to catch a glimpse of my Monday morning running buddy; it brought me back–you’re just running, dudette! I know how to run. I started to feel waves of the chills come over me, and I knew I was dehydrated, so I made a point to grab a cup of whatever and sip it each time I passed the “runner’s bar.”

I was wearing the same shorts and singlet I’d worn for the New York City Marathon back in 2008, which still remains my greatest race (even though I’ve bested the time, I have yet to execute a race as perfectly). I deliberately chose the outfit for that very reason; but unfortunately I just didn’t have a negative split in me on January 15, 2012.

Somewhere right before the 20k mark (20k-1:38:30, or a 7:58 pace) there was @grapevinerunner along a quiet stretch of road. I was looking for her, I knew she’d have a sign. By this point I was too exhausted and dizzy to read the whole thing–all I saw was that it was designed like a tweet and had my handle in there! Even better were her spoken words, “You’ve got this TK. Just a little bit more, you’ve got this.” Even though I’d been confident since the first mile I’d break 1:45, I wasn’t sure by how much–that was what kept driving me forward, that desire to burn myself as far away from 1:45 as possible. Hearing my friend tell me I had it, and feeling her support in my bones, let me release some of my tension. That’s right–I’ve got this. No matter the result, today was a great race. I kept running.

Not 50 feet up the road, I looked to my right and who did I see but Kara Goucher, Shalane Flanagan and Adam Goucher, running along the course towards us, out for a little recovery run! I couldn’t believe it; I snapped awake. Hi Kara, Hi Shalane! Hey guys! Kara oddly ducked her head, while Shalane and Adam looked over, wondering who was calling out. I ran a few more paces, kind of shocked at the sighting. Then I thought, Well, the least I can do, given their effort yesterday, is run faster now. So I put the pedal to the metal, thought about how I have a high pain threshold (if this is true or not I have no idea; I might have lied to myself to get the job done), and hammered out a 7:16 Mile 13 and ran the last bit to the finish at a 6:40 pace.

I crossed the line and my eyesight was blurry, I couldn’t catch my breath, and I felt the ground pulling at me. I was a little faint. I’d been here before and knew what to do; I found the smiley old guys monitoring the finish line and let them escort me forward. I let them ask me how I was until I felt I could walk on my own without fear of tipping over. Hey, it’s been over a year since I’ve been on a date: I was grateful for the opportunity to lean on a kind gentleman’s arm for a short walk.

With my official time of 1:43:18, I’d pulled out a half marathon PR by 3 minutes and 18 seconds. Along the way I PRed in the 10k by a minute and seven seconds. I know I had that crazy grin on, the one where I’m so bursting with happiness that I look like a deranged dervish. I got my medal, my bag, and met @grapevinerunner, @mdwsternNYer and @tejasrunnergirl at the reunion area. We swapped stories until I thought the ground buckled beneath me–um, time to eat!

And there you have it. Not my most strategic race ever, but perhaps my gutsiest. I had the help of excellent training as designed and assigned by my coach, Meg Stolt; the bolstering support of friends new and old; and the calming force of God reminding me that I am so much more than my race results. I had the inspiration of the Olympic marathon trials the day before, and the good fortune of absolutely perfect weather conditions–high 40′s/low 50′s, no breeze and overcast. In a big shift from my usual attitude of low confidence/modest goals, I went with the motto of “Everything’s bigger in Texas.” I dreamed bigger. I dared to believe I could break 1:45 by multiple minutes, and then did it.

I hope everyone else out there had the same support and success as I did yesterday, regardless of their degree of serious intent. Running is running is running, virtuous and joyous in its essential execution. The goals are a separate thing, to be spared of outside judgement or ranking. I am a runner; but I can talk about other things if you’d like.

2012 Olympic Marathon Trials

The speed these women and men throw down is inconceivable to me. Intellectually, I understand the numerics behind a 4:55 or 5:33 pace, but I have absolutely no physical way to ever know what that feels like: how fast my legs would have to switch places, how brief a period my feet would touch the ground, how the wind would ruffle my hair, how hard my heart would beat.

For most of the competitors in the field at the Olympic marathon trials, getting to the trials will be the peak of their running career—no small feat, with “A” qualifying standards at 2:19 for men and 2:39 for women, times most humans take to run half the distance. Consider the fact that probably 95% of the qualifiers hold down full-time jobs while training for the trials, and it’s no wonder I saw so many runners on Memorial Drive (who clearly had no chance of winning) wearing some sort of smile on their faces, even up until Mile 23. Just getting to the game is the fulfillment of the dream. The equivalent for a runner like me is qualifying for the Boston Marathon enough under the required time that I actually came away with a bib during registration.

But there’s that top 5% of runners, the professional elite, who might even take it for granted that they are going to the trials. Men like Ryan, Meb, Dathan, Jason and Brett; women like Kara, Shalane, Desi, Deena, Tera and Magda—the prize in their eyes isn’t a bib for the trials, but a spot on the United States’ Olympic marathon team. That’s not to say the other 95% doesn’t hope for and train for a daring and stunning performance that will earn them a spot on the team as well. No doubt, many of them made tremendous sacrifices on the slight chance that January 14, 2012 would be their miracle day.

When we watch the Olympic trials, we are observing a rarified talent unleashed across a range of ambitions, and that is what makes the race so emotional, so thrilling, and so unforgettable.

The beauty of the circuit course is that as fans, the athletes could pass us as often as eight times. We not only get to monitor the progression of the battle between the elites with enough frequency to really feel the drama, but we also get to know the pack runners. Normally I give chicks who race in skirts a hard time, but at the trials, I gave the woman in the hot pink skirt with ruffles and a matching hair ribbon props—she dressed up for her debut on the national stage, and damn if I didn’t cheer for her each time she zipped by me.  Then there were the Storage twins, and the woman whose last name was Sunshine—you know I cheered my guts out for her, even though I was a little covetous of her name. And the men? Well, I admit that I was admiring their gorgeousness right along with their speed. Fernando Cabada? Hel-lo! And how awesome was it to see my old favorite Andrew Carlson up there in the mix of the top 10? It was very awesome. My heart gave a twinge each time Stephan Shay, who was racing the trials in his brother Ryan’s memory, sped by.

I knew who I wanted to come in first: Ryan Hall and Desiree Davila. Even though they both had the top qualifying times in their divisions, I still felt like they each had something to prove to the world—Ryan because he is self-coached, and Desi because she has toiled away in the shadows of Kara and Shalane for so long. (It was a terrible flashback to the natural laws that goverened my high school when the gorgeous blonde won the day over the girl-next-door brunette in this marathon). Ultimately, the men’s and the women’s races were very similar, in that the runner who led for the majority of the race came in second because they were overtaken in the last mile or so by the eventual champion. Even as I was watching these pros fiercely compete with each other, I knew that they have a deep respect for each other, and that many of them are friends and teammates. This is a beautiful thing, and is a way of relating with other humans that I greatly admire.

Later, after @tejasrunnergirl and I had cheered and tweeted from just past Miles 5/13/21 and Miles 7/15/23, we watched the televised coverage of the race. Even though I knew the outcome, I could not help myself from shouting out loud for Dathan to reel in Abdi and earn back the third place on the team, and for Desi to crank it up and overtake Shalane in the final half mile to win instead of place. I got all choked up when I saw the men’s leaders begin to overtake the trailing women racers, because these women were cheering Ryan, Meb, Abdi and Dathan. And also: imagine what a twisted pleasure it would be to say, afterwards, “Oh yeah, I was totally lapped by Ryan Hall!” Watching Ritz, the fourth men’s finisher, collapse into tears once he crossed the finish line was nearly too much to bear; I felt squirmy and bereft, his private grief was painfully honest. How does Amy Hastings reconcile the bitter disappointment of fourth place after leading several miles—will she be able to ever stop replaying the vision of Shalane, Desi and Kara hugging triumphantly, draped in American flags right in front of her eyes, as she trundled across the finish line in fourth place?

I’ve explained the Olympic marathon trials to my non-running-fan friends as “the SuperBowl of running.” But I’m not sure that’s adequate. The SuperBowl is every year. Football fans get to see their teams play a gameon TV every week throughout the entire 17-week long season. There are bragging rights, money, and Hall of Fame potential at stake—but nothing as theatrical and grand as representing your country in a field of competition that convenes once every four years.

As fans of the marathon, and as fans of individual distance racers, we get to see our favorite athletes unleash their training at most twice a year in the marathon, more only if they also compete in cross country, track, or shorter distances on the roads. More often than not, those races are not on TV. And the opportunities we have to see the best our nation has to offer compete directly against each other? Rarer still. I’m not complaining, I’m trying to explain to you just how unique, dramatic and inspiring the Olympic marathon trials are. I fear my words are not adequate.

My imagination is sparked by these men and women. I am grateful for the way they so thoroughly exploit their God-given talents. Being a fan of the sport has done nothing but enhance both my enjoyment of and my performances within it.

To Meb, Ryan, Abdi, Shalane, Desi and Kara: congratulations! I cannot wait to watch you take on the best of what the rest of the world has to offer in London this August. I’ve already raced those streets—now it’s your turn!

Please Treat My New York City Girl Routine with Amusement. But First, Get Out of My Way, I’m Racing Here!

Houston, TX is one of those cities I’ve never wanted to visit. If it weren’t for the OT’s, I’d have been more likely to avoid Houston, for fear of stumbling into someone else’s memories of their life there. I’d imagined a visit to Houston like walking through a spider web: you can’t see the strands until you’re already draped in its crepe-y, creepy weave.

The Olympic Marathon Trials forced my hand. As I’ve already explained, the Trials pack such a strong punch of motivation that I would have traveled to see this race no matter where it was being held–even New Jersey. Last summer, a couple of my relay teammates suggested I make the trip a two-fer and race while I was down there, and there it was: I had a game plan. Houstonians, I apologize in advance for my cluelessness. Please treat my New York City Girl routine with amusement.

So now here I am, actually looking forward to a weekend in a state that is as strange to me as Eastern Europe. Luckily, I have a trusty translator and guide, my Twitter buddy @tejasrunnergirl. (She also has a blog, you know. Go there as soon as you’re done reading here.)

The next few days are going to be the ultimate combination of inspiration and perspiration. I can’t fucking wait.

INSPIRATION. I want Ryan Hall to win again. And I want Desi Davila to live up to her end of the dare that she threw down in Boston last year. Predictions? I don’t have any, other than to say that I believe the women’s race is going to be much more exciting than the men’s. No matter what, it will be the best possible mental set-up for my race the next day. There isn’t anything else that could so effectively get me pumped to race the hell out of my own distance event. My only wish is that I had a better camera.* My crappy point and shoot takes terrible action shots, and I can only get in one click of the shutter before the runners have thundered past.

PERSPIRATION. I’m staring down 1:45 for this half-marathon. I. WILL. NOT. EXCEED. IT. Not only that, I will race for as big a gap as possible between my finishing time and 1:45. As in, minutes. Can I do it? The ever-faithful @tejasrunnergirl tells me I’ll finish in 1:40. That’s a 7:37 average pace–ain’t she a funny one. When I put my 15k PR, ran a month ago, into the McMillan Calculator, it gives me 1;45:01 for the half-marathon, which I think is funny for quite a different reason. I have tried to explain how my confidence begat my ambition. This is still true. I’ve been feeling strong and ready all week. Dropping five pounds doing Organic Avenue’s five-day *LOVE Fast  juice cleanse last week means that I’ll be racing on legs that were trained to run while carrying more weight than they will have to on Sunday.  The big difference between this taper and every other taper I’ve ever done is the subtle conviction I feel. That’s a new feeling, and I am grateful for it. No matter what happens on race day, I won’t have any regrets. I know I won’t, because I have had so much fun getting to Houston. I also know I’m more prepared for this race than I have been for any race prior.

If you know my name, you can track me on the Houston Marathon website. If you don’t, you can get my updates by following three of my friends on Twitter. @BklynRunner , stationed in Coney Island, NY, will be tweeting my splits as they come through the computer, and @tejasrunnergirl and @grapevinerunner will be live tweeting TK sightings from the curb in Houston.

*if this is my only wish, then life’s pretty darn good. Amen.

Remembering the 2008 Men’s Olympic Marathon Trials

In Jonathan Beverly’s Editor’s Note in the January issue of Running Times, he asks two other editors as RT about their “most vivid trials memories.” This got me thinking about mine. I was training for the 2008 DisneyWorld Marathon with Team in Training when our coach insisted we all meet outside of Magnolia Bakery on The Avenue of the Americas at something like 7 AM the day before the New York City Marathon to watch the Men’s Olympic Marathon Trials. I owe that coach a great debt for things in my running life, but spectating the OT’s that year was a pivotal moment in my trajectory as a runner.

It was a tough training season for me; it was my second marathon and I was afraid of not improving, and I struggled with heel pain (the same heel pain that gets me today) and a whole lot of crappy long training runs. I didn’t have the same amount of friends on the team, and I wasn’t losing weight even when I hit 30-mile weeks (that was a lot of mileage for me then). But, I’d gotten the marathon bug when I raced Arizona back in 2007, and had applied myself learning about the professionals in my sport. I knew the top guys who were racing in the trials, and I couldn’t wait to see athlets like Brian Sell (he was my favorite), Ryan Hall and Dathan Ritzenheim run by. I was also a fan of Abdi, and Ryan Shay, Alan Culpepper, and Khalid Khannouchi.

So there we all were, shivering our tushies off outside of the Magnolia Bakery, waiting for the guys to jet by and up Sixth Avenue into Central Park. And then here they were! Dashing past! Who’s that weirdo all the way our front? (Michael Wardian) And there they go! We were passed, and I didn’t pick a single athlete out of the pack.

Anticipating I’d be jogging from site to site, I’d worn running shoes, and a sports bra under my speater and jacket. So up I went, to position myself inside the loop of Central Park so I could move back and forth and see the racers twice in each lap. No one else was with me–I lost everyone else as thousands of other fans raggedly chased the elites into the park. I remember being thrilled at being part of this crowd of “real runners,” unsure I actually fit in.

In the beginning I ended up somewhere on East Drive beneath the 72nd Street Transverse. It’s the same spot I cheered at the NYRR Mini a couple of years ago. As I waited for the guys to show up, I struck up a conversation with other spectators. Unlike myself (just a fan), they were proud parents supporting their son, who had raced a qualifying time and was in the mix. I wish I could remember his name; I know I cheered for him the first time he came by. For some reason I want to say his name was Dan, and he had red hair, but I could be making that up. My imagination was siezed by the fact that “regular” people like you and me–runners who also held day jobs, and trained in their free time–could compete for the same honor as our nation’s elites.

From there I walked up to the 79th Street Transverse at the top of Cat Hill, and I basically jogged back and forth between the east and west side until it was time to head to the finish line by Tavern on the Green. This enabled me to see the men at all stages of their race; I think I saw them a total of 8 times. After a while, I recognized the men by their singlets, or their running style. I observed who fell off the pack, and when; how relaxed (or not) the runners looked at the various mile markers; and all their ticks: how their form maintained or crumbled; who looked behind them, gripped their hamstring, grimaced, or winked to the crowd.

Yes, at least one of the athletes gave a wink to some pals on the sidelines. One of my favorite parts of watching this race is that the other people out there really knew the sport, so their conversations were highly informative. Also, some of the guys I was standing near seemed to be working in a team, and would send half the group to work the sides and the other half to work the top and bottom of the loops and text back and forth updates. As I was eavesdropping on their shop talk during the later miles, one of them said, “Sell just ran past Rob* [a friend elsewhere on course] and winked. He’s got this.” I loved that little detail! I’d have never gotten that by watching the New York City Marathon, it’s too sprawling, the crowd is too focused on the amateurs.

Soon after that I hustled down to the finish line. I knew I wouldn’t get close, but I wanted to cram as close as I could. The energy and excitement was fantastic; everyone was so excited. Ryan Hall was about to win in record time and become our Golden Boy. I remember watching him race in, really savoring the moment, greeting the crowds. We all were cheering madly. Then came Dathan, and Brian. Our team, we had our Olympic team! They wrapped themselves in flags, and everyone shared their triumph. It was only once I’d made it home and jumped online to find out the final results did I read about Ryan Shay’s terrible collapse and death.

For over a year, whenever I ran past the place I imagined he’d fallen along East Drive, I’d say a quick prayer for him and his family.

Before I knew about Shay, before Hall had even crossed the finish line, something within me had permanently shifted. First, watching a marathon in person on a circuit course allowed me to observe the race’s progression in a way you can’t by standing in one spot. Because of this, I finally got the event.  I came to understand how a two or two and a half hour race could be suspenseful, and dramatic. I understood how small shifts in the middle of a race could be deceptively meaningless–but how a similar shift just a few miles later could mean the difference between the podium or simply finishing. I was hooked. I vowed that day to go watch the Women’s Trials in Boston.

Also, I was incredibly inspired. To watch our nation’s best male marathoners come together to push each other to run their best was a huge gift to me as a runner. It changed my attitude from that of someone hoping to finish, to someone wanting to try my best. Which begged the question for me, What does it mean to try my best as a runner? That was the big shift. I wanted to run my best, I wanted to find out what that was. Could I break 4:30? (My first marathon took me 4:45:45). Even though I knew I’d never run an Olympic qualifying time, I became a serious runner. It didn’t happen overnight–it took me another year before I could prove that I was the real deal in the NYCM–but I can say with only a sliver of hyperbole that spectating the Men’s Trials changed my life.

Cheering at the Olympic Trials is like spectating on steroids. It’s the one marathon where we get to see all of our nation’s best marathoners–professional and amateur–all race the same course, at the same time. And for most of the athletes on the course, it’s the one marathon where they are more likely in the pack than a front runner. I cannot wait to get some of that juice on January 14th. I’m hoping it will help propel me to my own PR on the half-marathon course the next day.

*placeholder name. I can’t remember the actual name.

Ted Corbitt 15k

True confidence is a rare thing. I’ve motored through most of my life gassed up with bravado, pep talks, and blind fear and (sometimes) liquid courage. I’m good at acting spunky, brash, and judgemental–these are all qualities, when combined with how I wear my heart on my sleeve, that combine to confuse the viewer into thinking I’m a confident woman.

Rarely my confidence is actually so, though more and more often I have a realistic grip on my strengths and weaknesses, so I can at least be patchily confident.

Rarer still is when I head into a race feeling confident about being able to meet time goals. It’s a tricky thing, connecting the dots between training (I should be faster in my intervals, I shouldn’t get side cramps, my legs should feel springy, etc) and racing (every step I’ve taken up until this moment will carry me through to the finish line). It’s been so long since I’ve trained with serious intent (January to April 2010), that I’ve forgotten the way all those workouts fit together to form a viable race performance. So, I was nervous. Also: this 15k was the fitness test for Houston. So if I failed to perform in Central Park, then I would have even less hope of breaking 1:45 in my half-marathon a month later. My PR would be a PR, but it would also be a fortune-teller.

Granted, I wasn’t so nervous that I skipped The National concert at the Beacon that Friday night. I went with my best friend, CB, and it was cathartic. Their music is like opera, except sung in mumbles by a self-aware hottie. Also, no one dies, gets married, or goes to war. And there are multiple electric guitars. Amen.

As a nonsequitor for my Twitter followers: Damn you, Hot Cabinetmaker!

Back to the race report.

It was cold, but not nearly as cold as the last time I ran the Ted Corbitt 15k. Rereading that race report now, I realize that I was a lot more reflective during that race than I was this time around. I would be lying if I told you I thought of anything beyond constant system checks (can I keep this pace up without bonking or puking?) and how many women in my age group might be in front of me (less than 50? is that good or bad?). I focused on running the tangents, because I didn’t want to run any further than I absolutely had to (I think I ran about .15 of a mile extra). I focused on my breathing, and my heartbeat–was I relaxed or was I deseprately pushing? And I obsessed over my splits. Mile 1 was quite slow at 8:17 due to the crowding (damn NYRR races) and on Mile 3 I took the hills easy (8:01), hoping to save myself for the final miles. Yet according to my Little G, apart from those two, I didn’t run another mile slower than 7:49.

Every now and then I’d snap out of my self-absorption and try to pass someone. Somewhere around Mile 7 a woman pulled up next to me, practically wheezing, and it was clear she was trying to pass me. Hey, I understand the need to pick people off as a way to maximize personal performance–I do it all the time, and went on to do it a few times in this very race–but there was absolutely NO WAY I was letting this lady pass me. Hell, I was breathing easy! I thought, Find someone else to pass, bitch, sped up and left her in the dust.

There were two women with whom I’d been taking turns leading or following for the bulk of the race. In Mile 7, I decided I’d had enough. I needed to know if I could pass them for good, or if they really did have it all over me. I picked the first one, a woman too skinny for her tights (they sagged around her ass. NO FAIR.). Passed her, and she stayed passed. I was surprised. Then, the second one, she was a little blonde sprite. Shit, I may have tried to catch her in other races, too–she had that archetypal look going on. I thought, I’d like to pass her for good, too. I nearly burned out my lungs doing it, but I passed her and never had the pleasure of seeing her tushy again.

For context, I was trying to beat a PR of 1:16:51. But also, I was hoping to be able to run at least 7:55′s, because if I couldn’t sustain that pace for a 15k now, there’s no way I’d be able to do it for a 13.1 mile race a month later (that’s the slowest I hope to run in Houston). So simply PRing wasn’t enough for me, which is why I wasn’t feeling very confident. My training had been going well, but I wasn’t sure if it was enough to get me to 7:55′s.

Somewhere around halfway through, I was suspiciously confident that I could carry on with the sub-8 minute pace through to the finish line. It came on gradually. It wasn’t cockiness, it wasn’t shock. Simply, I knew I was locked in, that my body was on the case. I knew had it. Did that knowledge make the race any easier? Fuck no–it made it harder. Because once I was sure I’d average 7:55′s, I wanted something more than that. I wanted faster! I wanted quicker! I wanted more speed, more fleetness, I wanted to feel powerful and postpone the gasping as long as possible. My confidence begat my ambitions…en route to them.

This was the proper response to the knowing; I need confidence and ambition to grab a sub 1:45 (and I mean: as SUB AS POSSIBLE) on January 15, 2012.

No doubt there will be a Superskinny and a Sprite there for me to chase in Miles 11, 12 and 13 in Houston. Do Texan women race in full make-up and with teased hair? I hope so.

Official race time: 1:13:07, 7:52 pace. I placed 30th out of 364 in my gender age group, and I PRed by 3:44 (a 24 second per mile improvement).

Duck Trot 8k

When I was a little girl, Thanksgiving would be spent at my Nana’s house on Long Island. She’d line up two or three tables in the living room and feed nearly 20 guests. When we numbered more than 20 people, she’d set up the tables in the basement and the ladies would get a good quad workout marching serving dishes up and down the stairs all day. My Nana took such pride in her Thanksgiving hostessing skills that she would cook doubles of everything—turkey, stuffing, vegetables—so that every guest could take home a heaping plate of leftovers.

As if the fracas of relatives and tryptophan-induced stupor weren’t enough good times, each year my little brother and I spent Thanksgiving weekend with Nana and PopPop. We loved staying with them because they’d take us to the movies and to the beach, and keep us occupied with crafts. If we were lucky we’d get pastina and butter as a midnight snack, and for fun Nana would shoot Redi-Whip from the can straight into our mouths. The crafts were the best. Strict Aunt Tessie would come over and teach us how to make Santa faces using bleach bottles, felt and cotton balls. Or we’d twist pinecones onto wire frames to make wreaths, or stick plastic seagulls onto pieces of driftwood with florist’s moss and beach glass for our own interpretive dioramas of Jones Beach. These things would become the gifts we’d give to family members; we’d even wrap them up Thanksgiving weekend and tote them home in boxes, ready to be put under the tree for aunts and uncles.

But the best part of the whole weekend was when the Hicksville Fire Department would come roaring by in two trucks loaded up with firemen, sirens wailing and lights flashing. We’d rush outside to the sidewalk and jump up and down, waving our arms, waiting for the fireman dressed as Santa to throw us a popcorn ball. That was all they did, driving through the neighborhoods chucking balls of caramel corn, but we loved it—the noise, the fancy trucks, the treats, the flick attention we got from these cool guys. It officially marked the start of Christmas for us, even more than the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, or the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center.

This year, my Thanksgiving involved none of that. Yes, I spent it with my family, but we were all in Colorado at my brother’s house, Nana’s days of hosting crowds at her dinner table long gone. New traditions (which basically means no traditions apart from turkey, stuffing, etc.) have risen to fill the place of those three-day weekends, and I am grateful to still have my family to gather with. For a few years I made my own tradition of running over the 59^th Street Bridge on Thanksgiving morning, but this year let that go since I was in Colorado. I ran the Coal Creek Trail with my brother instead, which was pleasant but vaguely awkward; it sure as hell didn’t feel like a Thanksgiving run. So, today’s Duck Trot 8k was my irreverent nod to tradition (“Duck” instead of “Turkey” because the race is staged by the Long Island Road Runners Club, and Long Island is historically known for its duck farms).

Also, I really wanted to PR. Bad.

The Duck Trot is the race I won two years ago. Based on last year’s finishing times for the women, I didn’t think I could win it this year, but I was hoping for an age group award. In order to PR I needed to average an 8-minute pace or better. I have been feeling really strong in my training, and my running in Colorado confirmed I was fitter than the last time I’d run at altitude, but I still wasn’t sure how the 8k would turn out. The last race I ran, on Roosevelt Island, didn’t give me much confidence that I could sustain that pace or better for nearly 5 miles. I was nervous.

In what turned out to be a great cosmic assist, I could not locate the parking lot for the race and burned 10 minutes before the start driving up and down Park Drive in Eisenhower State Park trying to sight the starting line. Although this keyed me up and had me running a 7-minute-per-mile pace for the first quarter mile, the up side was getting lost(-ish) prevented me from standing around obsessing about the race I would soon be running.

Once I got to the start, I sized up the competition. There were two women who I thought might be faster than I was, one because she had on shorts that were very nearly bumhuggers, and the other because she was extraordinarily skinny. Clearly, my criteria for picking out these women are arbitrary but flawless: these two would turn out to be the only two women who finished ahead of me. I was frantically pinning my bib on and tying up my pigtails when SCL magically appeared on my left with a “Hi TK!” We shared a wish and a promise (Have a great race! See you at the finish!) before the gun sounded.

I hate how my pulse flails wildly out of control in the beginning. Excitement, nervousness, adrenaline, and the lack of a warm-up all conspire to make me think I’m a running heart attack. In the first half mile, I was passed by Bumhugger, Extraskinny, and an older chick with a blonde ponytail wearing tights. I let the first two go since I suspected if I tried to hang with them I would bonk, but I stayed right on the tail of Blonde Ponytail. She was running 7:55, and that was the pace I wanted for the first two miles. Soon after the first mile mark I felt her fading, heard her raspy breath. Poor thing. Passed! After that, a few guys ran by me, but by the time I crossed the finish line I’d passed most of them back. In fact, only 8 men finished ahead of me.

During Mile 1 and 2, despite better advice from JT, I looked constantly at my watch to make sure I was keeping the pace a few seconds under 8 minutes. Those splits clicked at 7:50 and 7:56. At the very beginning of Mile 3, there was a decline leading into an incline. I decided to rev it up on the downhill so I didn’t slow down pace on the uphill. Well, I didn’t actually ever slow down from the rev-up, so Mile 3 was a 7:44. I passed a few folks in that mile, including a man who groaned “Uuh!” with every exhale. Runners NB: if you make weird noises as you run, have an audible tread, or a beeping heart rate monitor, you’re just begging for me to pass you, if only to get away from the irritating sounds!

At the beginning of Mile 3, I caught a glimpse of Extraskinny. It was like I was a shark who whiffed a trace of blood in the water. I had thought she was so far ahead of me that I’d never catch her; I’d resigned to racing myself, and all those nice things us mid-pack runners tell ourselves so we still feel like a winner when we finish a race. But when I saw her I thought, Hhmm let me see just how close I can get. I could tell that she wasn’t working extraordinarily hard; her form was relaxed, she had her iPod in (translation: I probably wouldn’t pass her but I might get close enough to make her nervous). She certainly didn’t seem to expect me to catch her. I decided to very deliberately do another rev-up; nothing drastic that would leave me gasping and leaden in the final mile, but something steady and focused.

Well, thank God for Extraskinny. Bit by bit, I reeled her in, and her ever-decreasing lead kept me working at a consistently hard effort. My last two miles were 7:34 and 7:20. I’m pretty sure Extraskinny put on the jets the last mile (or, .96 of a mile, since this was an 8k), since I had to work harder to maintain the gap. Also, I saw her look over her shoulder a few times, to see where I was. That was kind of cool. If someone had been close enough to play the theme from Jaws for her, I’m sure I could have psyched her out completely. CHOMP! I’m not sure what her original lead on me was, but I couldn’t even see her for a while, so I’m stoked just to have closed the gap as much as I did (she finished 11 seconds ahead of me). 

Yeah, I never did get to gnaw on her third-place leg. Instead, I finished third out of all women, 1:32 behind Bumhugger, with an official time/pace of 38:25/7:44. This is 3 seconds slower per mile than the pace I ran at the Roosevelt Island 5k this October. I was 11^th overall, which makes me disproportionately happy. Oh, and that’s a PR by like MINUTES. I got a nifty age grouper medal, and chatted with SCL for half an hour after the race, which was a treat. I wasn’t expecting any other New Yorkers to make it out for this suburban gem, and it’s always great to get face time with my Twitter pals.

Afterwards, I headed over to my Nana’s house to spend some time with her and share about my Thanksgiving with her great-grandchildren. She was lively, alert, and grateful for the unseasonably warm weather since it meant a few more days she could comfortably sit out on her stoop. She had her Thanksgiving dinner with her live-in nurse. My Nana is on an oxygen tank and largely housebound; she shuffles from her bedroom to the kitchen table with her walker a few times a day.

I left her a little after 11 AM, and set out walking to the train station (it’s about a 20 minute walk). As I walked, I heard sirens screeching in the background. I walked several more blocks, and saw kids on every front lawn hopping up and down and glancing about in excitement. It dawned on me: the firemen were coming to chuck popcorn balls! I stopped walking. I got my camera ready. I watched the kids; I waved at the firemen; I remembered my childhood with a goofy grin on my face. Then, Santa laughed and hurled a popcorn ball at me. It hit me right in the chest and bounced onto someone’s lawn; I scrambled after it, laughing with a non-age-appropriate glee.

A few minutes later, contentedly chomping on my popcorn ball as if it were an apple, I realized how I must have seemed to the firemen. Two fluffy pigtails, sneakers, athletic jacket and track pants. I was walking to my destination (no shiny SUV for me), with a backpack strapped over both shoulders. Not to mention, I made no attempt to catch the popcorn ball, just watched it arc towards me, mesmerized, until it hit me, bonk! I must have looked like I was out on a day pass from a supervised home for special needs adults. He threw it right to me, and I stood there laughing like a big spaz.

If only those firemen had seen me race. Maybe next year.

Doudy Draw Trail, Boulder, CO

I loved it so much, I boldly asked for more.

I’m in town with my family for Thanksgiving, which adds a whole pool of gravy atop my pile of mashed potato gratitude. I suppose you could say that these two runs through Doudy Draw Trail and around El Dorado Springs are the cranberry dressing on my plate of things to be grateful for this year.

Tuesday, I met Green Mountain Relay teammate and host of the podcast Dump Runners Club @runnermatt (MT) and Twitter pal and Saturday Morning Zen blogger @smzrunner (LR) in the lobby of my hotel here in Louisville, CO for a 7-miler through the foothills. LR, a self-proclaimed trail runner, led MT and I up a few miles of climbing, cutting across grassy, yellow hills and through an aromatic pine forest. The trail was that dusty red color I always associate with Colorado, ever since I saw my first concert at Red Rocks Amphitheater in July 1998. The sky was the Platonic ideal of a sky: light blue with white clouds that cast no shadows. The pines stood green, the deer hopped brown, the flatirons and rocky walls rose rusty and silvery. Nature was doing her part; and I did my best to do mine. The altitude made the climb tough for me, but I hung in there and we paused several times so I caught my breath while catching glimpses of “the pretty,” as LR so cutely calls the casually gorgeous landscape of Boulder County.

MT told me about racing a 5k dressed as a gorilla with his daughter, about his work (he’s one of the few people I know who truly loves his profession), and about his plan for Thanksgiving (cherry pie). LR told me about her two children, her profession (career counselor), and her quest to train for her first marathon while managing multiple food intolerances and GI issues. I didn’t do much talking, as I was breathing very hard throughout most of the run. I was content to listen, or to just run by myself. The scenery was such a  switch from what I run through every day in New York City, it was impossible for me to take it all in on just this first run. Often, I regretted not having my camera.

So when LR tweeted that she’d be open to squeezing in another run with me before I left town, I jumped at the chance and asked her to go back to Doudy Draw. I think she was a little surprised; I was thankful she was willing to head back there with me, and could accommodate me in her schedule. And, I was happy to  have some one-on-one time to talk with her, since we have each been through a year of big life changes and could relate to each other. Other things we have in common: we’re both the same age, and in fact our birthdays are only six days apart! I enjoyed her company very much, and felt at ease with her right away (this week was the first time we ever met in person). Once again, Twitter has brought an excellent person into my life! Love when that happens.

What follows are some of the photos I took during that second run up Doudy Draw Trail, through El Dorado Springs, and down El Dorado Springs Drive. I’ll be back to run this trail again, for sure!

Seven Is the New Five

Life has been blessedly full. I say this not to make you jealous (don’t hate me because I’m beautiful) but as explanation as to why I’ve been an absentee blogger. Hear me: I haven’t wanted to stay away. I love writing, and even more than that I love writing for you, in this space. What’s kept me from chronicling my training and racing for you? 2011 has been a year of massive change, restructuring, and obligation. The restructuring has been slow, and largely invisible. Here is one of the many metaphors I wish I could have woven into a blog post for you: what’s happened in my heart and mind this year has been just like the electric work in my kitchen renovation. It was the most time-consuming part of the process, taking weeks of chopping, channeling, careful rewiring and finally smooth patchwork so that by the time the paint was applied, I would never believe the work that lies beneath if I hadn’t seen it done with my own eyes.

Dearests, I want to keep up the trust you have in me, yet I fear that if I start setting PRs you will not believe me (or even worse, it will not move you), since I have kept you from witnessing the rewiring I’ve experienced in my training.

My Twitter followers will have a vague notion. I’ve been doing a lot of chopping and channeling at Astoria Park Track, over hilly Route 940 in the Poconos, and through the streets of Queens, mostly in the bike lanes of 34th and 31^st Avenues around Jackson Heights. (Occasionally I get a little shock when I circle the Great Lawn in Central Park—what a different world surrounds that green pasture. 7 AM Manhattanites, with purebred dogs, designer camp jackets and Starbucks in hand are quite another crowd from the 6 AM Latino carpenters and custodians heading to work on their bicycles in denim and fleece with their lunches packed on their backs. I love them equally, my city would not be the same if one set were missing.)

Here’s something: over the last few weeks, nearly all my workouts are either specifically designed to have me run 7 miles, or they end up that way (excepting my long runs, of course). Two months ago, I was lucky if a workout neared 6 miles.  Without a doubt, 7 is the new 5, and I love that. Eleven will always be my favorite number, but seven is special, too. I’ve been waiting practically all year to get my weekly mileage above 30; now it’s there, and it’s all because of these thrice-weekly 7-milers. Seven, seven—Amen!

I’ll say Amen again, because not only is my mileage at the level where I’ve seen breakthroughs come in the past, but I have also been injury-free for months now. My training was interrupted in early October for nearly two weeks because I had a cold that leveled me, clogged up my lungs and drained all my energy; but Betty, and the phantom knife that has twice stuck itself into my heel (it’s a pinched nerve) simply haven’t been. Consistency in training is the gift of their absence, and my gratitude to them is so great it compels me to run until I get a cramp in my side. That pain I do not mind.

So speed—or something approximating speed—has been filling the void left by Betty and the Knife.  Coach Meg has me running some sort of Fast about three days a week, sometimes more. Maria’s Monday is always recovery; necessarily, since I usually have three hard workouts Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I take Tuesdays and Thursdays or Fridays as my rest days. The other days are filled with track workouts (ladders, or 800’s), interval runs like 5 x 1k, progression runs, and fast-finish runs. Some days Meg just says, “7 miles, HARD.” What does “HARD” mean when I wake up at 5:15, am out the door by 5:45 (panting over my bridge in the dark, admiring the glint of the river and the skyline) churning towards Midtown? The incentive to beat the sun is meager, since that’s more a game of timing than speed. I usually determine that “HARD” means “faster than my last attempt at 7 miles.” Faster, TK, faster. And not just plain old faster, but faster when it matters most: at the end, in the final miles and meters.

I love this shit. Let us pray: God, If I may not succeed, may I at least crash and burn. I will take the smash and the flame to mean that I was giving it everything I had.

PRs would be nice; PRs would be just. While I do not expect to be first female again, I would like to beat my time from two years ago in the Duck Trot 8k in Eisenhower State Park this Sunday. After that, I would like to beat my time in the Ted Corbitt 15k, again from two years ago. And finally, I am aiming to break 1:45 at the Aramco Houston Half-Marathon in January. I want that time so badly the thought of it is a spur in my flank when I would otherwise relent in an interval, or dial back on a day’s measure of “HARD.”

All things considered, 1:45 is only slightly faster than average for women my age in the half-marathon. I think it’s about the sixtieth percentile.* But for me, for me it would be the flick of the switch that turned the lights on.  Only those who knew the work that had gone into rewiring would marvel at the shine. Yet marvel or not, the shine would be irrefutable.

*when looking at the 2011 NYC Half results for women 35-39, 1:44:58 is an AG% of 63.33 (or 84th in my age group); when looking at the 2011 Aramco Houston Half-Marathon results for the same group, I would have finished 15th.