The Downside of a Cool Spring

I felt it today, for the first time this year–that 90% humidity that knocks you backwards when you step out the door. This is unusual for us. As I think I’ve shared before, we usually start feeling the heat and humidity in early March. This year, though, we’ve had unusually cool weather in the spring, and I ran this week–yes, in late April–in my long Pearl Izumi sleeves and a tank top, because when I set out of the house at 4:30 it was in the low-50s and very, very crisp to this southern, weak-blooded Florida runner.

And then, overnight yesterday, a thunderstorm blew through, leaving behind the muggy, sodden air we’re more used to when the calendar reads April. When I set out, it was already 75 degrees, with 83% humidity. Here’s the thing: usually, by this time of the year, I’ve been running in these conditions for about eight weeks, and I’m completely acclimated. But today, it was my first day running in it, and I felt completely demoralized and undone by the heat and soggy, unbreathable air. I know I’ll get my legs back, but it’s going to be a slow couple of weeks.

In related news, I had definitely slowed down even before the heat hit. I said I would slow down immediately after the events at Gasparilla in early March, but if you look at my logs at RunningAhead, the reality is that I didn’t–at least not by very much. I ran two 30-mile weeks two weeks after the Challenge, for no real good reason at all. They did result in a near-PR at the Rooney’s 5k, so I’m not complaining, but they represented a huge gap in what my lips and mind were saying (“I’m not in training, so I’m going to take a huge cutback in volume”) and what my legs were doing (no change at all).

As you can guess, after the 5k I did feel some effects. My knee has started to bother me more than it has in a while, as have my shins. As I do about once every year, I’ve also started to feel more blah in general about my running. Don’t get me wrong–I still love the sport, but I’m not absolutely starving to get out and run mile intervals once a week. As a result, my legs have finally caught up with my philosophical desire to cut back my training. The week after the 5k, I only ran 12 miles, and this week I barely made it to 18, with my long run stretching to a whopping six. Incredibly, I’m actually losing weight, because it turns out when you’re not running 30+ miles a week, you’re just not that hungry. I’m running very little, resting my knee, and I feel good. Though I’d initially said I’d start building my mileage back up in May, I’m not gunning to start my 30-mile weeks any time soon, and am looking at staying under 20 for another couple of weeks. Since Little G and I are considering running a marathon in the spring, not the fall, this gives me more time to build up my base before marathon training. This suits me just fine for now, as the Boss and I are doing some little projects around the house, and I’ve added some ministry responsibilities that mean I’d be getting much less sleep if I was still trying to get in 8-mile runs on a regular basis.

Oh, I also ran naked for the first time today. Get your minds out of the gutter; I mean that I purposely set out running without my Garmin GPS. Though I love my Forerunner, all this week it’s felt huge and clunky and incredibly intrusive sitting on my wrist, and in fact, most of this week I chose to wear it, not on my wrist, where it’s felt like a big-screen TV staring at me, but looped around the SpiBelt where I carry my phone. Each time, I decided to wear it because I’m a data hound and I like to keep track of my pace for each mile, knowing whether I’m running faster or slower as the miles tick off. Today, though, even the data wasn’t worth the aggravation, and I very purposefully left my sweet Garmie at home when I set out. I was running a route I know very well, and speed wasn’t an issue–I knew that six miles would take about an hour to cover, and I desperately wanted freedom from numbers, from data, from performance.

I’m thinking May will be about heat acclimatization and shorter, more relaxed runs . . . which suits me just fine. And I think I’m going to be running naked a lot more.

Still Learning

2012 Rooney’s 5k

April 14, 2012
Bib Number: 234
Overall Placement: 150 / 924 (16.2%)
Age Group Placement: 4 / 74 (5.4%)
Gender Placement: 35 / 510 (6.9%)
Chip Time: 23:42

Little G and I decided to run six half marathons in six months kind of on a lark, halfway through the racing season last year, when we realized that we had already run one half marathon each in October and November and could easily squeeze one in in December–our local event–to finish out 2011. We already had a half marathon scheduled in March, so all we had to do was find one in the months of January and February to make the project a reality.

At the time, we hadn’t given much thought to the actual training. Our speed goal event was the November race, and the distance goal event was the March event, which was part of a 30-mile, 4-races-in-4-days event, so we knew we could run the rest of the half marathons fairly easy. We’re both fairly regularly committed to the double-digit long run anyway, so we didn’t think that running one half marathon a month would change the way we trained very much; realistically, we’d have been running about a 13-mile long run once a month anyway, but nobody would have been handing us water as we did it, or charging us  money for the privilege.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, the races did end up getting stacked a little in the calendar; we ran the first three races in the span of five weeks, then had seven weeks off, then ran the last three within five weeks again. We trained well, hitting the bridge for hard, concerted hillwork in the first half of the season and then concentrating on interval work in the second half of the season. We did lots of long runs, especially double long runs, peaking the week we covered 10 miles on Friday and 16 on Saturday.

I knew, as I ran the half marathons, that I was in fairly good shape. Though I never ran a personal best at the half, I felt strong running each race. I was able to pick up the pace each time and finished well, in spite of adverse conditions like heat and wind, and though I was disappointed to have missed my chance to run better than 1:49, I knew a season like this was an achievement in itself. I knew I had accomplished something when I finished my last half of the season in 1:58–after racing a 15k and a 5k the day before–then turned around and ran an 8k in 45:10. I knew that meant my legs and my brain were trained for endurance.

This Saturday, Little G and I did it again. We signed up for another race on a lark. It was a local 5k, run on the streets we use a lot for training. It required tweaking our training plan a little, since we were planning to run short on Friday and long on Saturday and racing meant (a) canceling the Friday run to spare our legs and (b) changing the Saturday long run to a race. We knew we weren’t going to do great because, since we hadn’t planned to race, we’d run the bridge on Tuesday, tiring ourselves more than we would have otherwise. Though Little G doesn’t love 5ks, we know they’re good measuring sticks, and we figured it would be a good reintroduction to the short-distance speedwork that’s been sorely lacking in our training program of late.

The race start was about two miles from my place, so Little G drove over about thirty minutes before gun time. The sky was ominous, which is about par for the course for every race we’ve run this season, and the winds were howling out of the west, which meant they’d be at our faces on the home stretch of the race course. We ran to the start line as our warm up and got there in plenty of time.

I didn’t do this one particularly well. I said I was going to take it easy. I knew I’d done the hills on Tuesday, then run a tough 6½ on Thursday during which my heartrate felt way too high for an easy run. My legs, I figured, were tired. I figured I’d run at an easy 8 or 8:30 pace and call it a day. But then, then gun went off, and so did I. Little G and I were standing pretty close to the mats because we were told we’d only get a net time, so we went off pretty close to the leaders. I knew better than to get caught up in their 5-minute pace, so I was getting passed pretty steadily. Still, I knew I was working too hard for mile 1, and trying hard to steady myself. Little G went past me early in the race. I told myself I generally have her in short distances, and let her go. Mile 1 came in at 7:32, with my confidence in the tank.

Though I run these roads every week, they seemed longer on race day. The rain hadn’t started, but the winds were strong and contrary, and I wasn’t enjoying myself. I was working hard, which I expected, and I remembered that this is why 5ks are hard–there are no cruising miles like there are in a half marathon. You just work hard the entire distance. We hit a water station and I saw Little G go right by it. I was working too hard, and getting too hot, not to get any help. I swooped in and took a cup, not to drink, but to pour over my head. The relief pushed me on, and I noticed that I was starting to pick some people off. Up ahead, we came upon the turnaround, just going around a cone, and Little G was only a few people ahead of me. We grinned at each other as we went around. I kept working not to lose her, and mile 2 came in at 7:39.

The third mile in a 5k can be a march of death, and it very much was on this day. People around me were beginning to fade, and I swore I wouldn’t be one of them. Though in some races I can begin to push at the last mile, I knew I didn’t have enough gas for a mile-long push, and I determined to just try to hold a steady pace instead. As we passed the 2.5-marker, I tried to push a little, and started gaining on Little G, passing her around the 2.8 mark. My face started getting flushed, and I knew I was risking a migraine or worse. The only turns in this race are at the end, and I pictured taking them smoothly and quickly, finishing mile 3 in 7:41. All around me, coaches and spectators were encouraging their runners, and I appropriated their words for myself as I left everything I had, and finished that last little bit at 6-something pace. I have never been so thankful not to bend my head for a medal.

As you can see, it wasn’t my best execution–I generally speed up as I run, and I didn’t do that Saturday (in fact I slowed down each mile!). Having said that, though, I still remember passing people on the way to the finish line, so the slowdown on this race was particularly ominous. It remains only the second time I’ve broken 24 minutes, and since I wasn’t looking at Garmie the entire time, nor training for the distance–or, in fact, training at all, really–it was an incredible shock when I saw the clock at the finish line.

I know I’ve probably said it before, but I’ll say it again, and maybe it’ll be useful to someone: racing six half marathons in six months has been the best training plan I’ve ever stumbled upon. It’s kept me honest in my training, and brought speed to my legs, strength to my psyche, and endurance to my heart and lungs. I doubt I’ll do it again this year–I’ve got other things in mind–but I’d love to do it every year if finances, time, and the body could endure it.

I’m going back to my not-in-training laissez faire attitude for now, taking the day off today with a sore knee. March and April are my off months, and I’ll begin base building in May and June. At least that’s what I’m telling myself now.

30 Thoughts for 30 Miles

Friday, March 2: Pre-Race

1. I’m a little surprised I got out of the house. The Girl had to be picked up from school early the day before, Thursday, because she had a fever, and then broke out in violent hives. When we took her to the pediatrician’s, we got orders for an epipen and a referral to the allergist. This was roughly sixteen hours before I was to leave town for the race.
2. Obviously, the Girl couldn’t go to school, since she (a) had had a fever within twenty-four hours and (b) would likely have a recurrence of the hives within forty-eight hours. (She did, in fact, wake up with hives on Friday, the day after the initial outbreak.) I had no one to leave her with until the Boss’s dad agreed to drive up to stay with her until the Boss could get home from work around 3.
3. Little G and I left my house around 11, stopped for lunch, and finally got on the highway a few minutes before noon. From there, the trip turned into a comedy of errors, and a trip that should have taken three-and-a-half hours took over five. Granted, we took several potty breaks, since we’d both been hydrating extremely well all week, but literally every obstacle you can imagine came on us on that drive. We hit insane traffic, stalled trains, and closed expressways that forced us to take thirty minute detours. Little G and I are directionally challenged anyway, so we didn’t need any more craziness thrown our way. We finally made it to the hotel around dinner time, when the original plan was to leave as soon as my kids went to school and make it closer to lunch.
4. Since runners aren’t just flexible physically but also flexible about life in general, we were happy to get to the expo well before closing time at 8. We got our bibs and picked up some new shoes, then returned to the hotel to eat the ziti Little G had brought along for us. We had asked for a room with a microwave and fridge, and a DVD player, so we watched a little of Pride and Prejudice before settling in. Knowing that the next day was going to be hot and muggy, we were still hydrating, and were asleep by 9.
5. We talked a little about our goals for the weekend. We both wanted to improve on our times from last year. I’d logged an overall 4:53, or a 9:37 pace for all 30 miles, and I thought I could do better just by reserving enough energy to do better than 10:30 pace at the last event. This was my primary goal: not to bonk. If you study my paces from last year, you see a steady decline in speed, from an 8:58 pace in the 15k to a 9:35 in the 5k to a 9:37 in the half and then a dreadful 10:20 in the 8k. I was dearly hoping not to see that happen again, though I knew there was a good chance I’d see a drastic drop in pace in the last race, and I was okay with that.

Saturday, March 3: Day One

6. The first race was the 15k at 7am. We were thrilled to finally get started. At the same time, we knew this race could be the key to everything. If we went out too fast in this one, we could get derailed in our efforts to do well, so this one was key. We had purposely packed our coolest outfits for Saturday since the weather was forecast to cool off for Sunday. We packed a change of shirts, then headed down to race headquarters.
7. We got in the chute pretty close to the front. Though race organizers had instituted corral separation this year, they had no one policing the corrals, so Little G and I knew it was up to us to not get trapped by slower runners or sucked into a fast pace. The conflicting goals, of course, were to do better than last year (1:23:31) and yet leave enough reserves in the tank for the rest of the weekend.
8. We got separated right away, and this is the only race where I have no memories of ever seeing Little G on course. I kept looking at my watch during the race and I knew I was going fast, but I wasn’t sure whether I needed to slow down.
9. I was very conscious of the fact that I needed to hydrate well if I was going to have any chance of meeting my goal of not crashing, not only on the rest of this day, but for the rest of the Challenge. I hit almost every aid station to take in water, and also took Endurolytes, my mineral-replacement product of choice, during the entire 9.3-mile course. I think this made all the difference. I had no headache or cramping issues at all this year.
10. The 15k, by the numbers: 1:21:37, or 8:47 pace. Splits: 8:44, 8:45, 8:38, 8:52, 8:36, 8:52, 8:27, 9:06, 8:30, 8:08. I placed in the top 20% overall, top 14% in my age group, and was in the top 10% among women.
11. The second event was the 5k, which didn’t start until 9:30. We were concerned about this one because of the heat, but there wasn’t much we could do about that. We made sure we had our sunglasses and plenty of Endurolytes, and prayed we’d taken in enough water during the 15k.
12. After the 15k, we ducked out of the crowd and got into the convention center/race headquarters through the back doors to claim our gear bags. We changed our shirts and got some water down, though we discovered we couldn’t eat anything. We were glad to lose our medals, and, in my case, the fuel belt I had worn during the 15k, before returning to the start area. Unfortunately, we got on the wrong side of the corrals, with those who were still finishing the first race, so we had to jump a couple fences, praying not to pull a muscle or twist an ankle so early in the weekend’s events. We finally made it into the corrals and started weaving to the front again, taking a gel before the start.
13. Because we lined up close to the front, we had the 7:30 pacer on our heels, out the gate. Needless to say, we let him go. After a while, we also let the 8-minute guy go. Little by little, we let ourselves get sifted out. Little G said she’d feel okay sitting with the 10-minute milers. I wasn’t feeling like being quite that slow, though I knew this needed to be an easier recovery run or I’d have nothing left for day 2. We kept telling ourselves, “This is our recovery run; this is our recovery run.” I was still pushing the water and mineral-replacement tablets, and increasingly having a second issue: my stomach was talking to me. I knew I was going to have to take a pit stop. Little G and I were running about 9-minute pace, but in the second mile I told her to go ahead and ducked into a potty. I had to wait for about half a minute, time wasted, and it was a long minute to relief, but I was glad I had stopped, because I felt much better running afterward, and my pace following the stop was much faster: my third mile was 8:40, and I found energy for an 8-minute push at the end. (splits: 8:56, 8:57 (+1:20 potty stop), 8:41, 8:00)
14. The 5k, by the numbers: chip time, 28:53, or 9:18 pace (darn that potty time!). This would end up being my slowest race of the weekend, which shocks me to no end. I still managed to place in the top 15% of the field, and the top 7% of both my age group and gender.
15. Post-5k, we were not in a huge rush. We found out a local restaurant was passing out black bean soup, so we grabbed a bowl and sat down to eat and drink some water, then got our gear bags, changed our shirts, and got the massages we’d paid for when we registered. After showering back at our hotel, we got dressed, wearing the shoes we’d bought at the expo to break them in. We took the trolley to the restaurant we’d picked out for lunch. The rest of the day was spent napping and resting; we very specifically wanted to stay off our feet. We laid out clothes for Sunday and got ready . . .

Sunday, March 4: Day Two

16. We were very concerned about the weather for Sunday. The forecast was calling for a cold front to move through pretty much at gun time, so there was a possibility of thunder and rain. We knew the race director wouldn’t call the race for rain, but also that she wouldn’t risk putting thousands of runners on the road in a lightning storm. We walked to the convention center against the wind, getting caught in one brief downpour before checking our bags and heading for the chute. A few people in the start area were wearing garbage bags; Little G and I had on long sleeve shirts over our tanks. To prepare for the possibility of rain, we’d not only packed extra shirts in our gear bags, but we also had an extra pair of shoes for back up in case we got soaked on the first race. In the end, though, the rain had moved through very quickly before the start, leaving behind a very gusty, much cooler day.
17. The half was organized around a wave start, and again, Little G and I were near the start. I heard the second wave go off five minutes behind us as I was climbing the bridge toward Davis Island. For the first few miles of this race, I was getting passed very steadily and decidedly by most of the runners around me. It was somewhat humbling, but I also had to remember that I had another race to run. I tried to remember to moderate my effort not just with an eye toward the immediate finish line, but with an eye toward the final finish line—which was still quite a few miles away. For the first time since starting this “six half marathons in six months” project, my math was totally different. At the 2-mile mark of the half marathon, I didn’t have eleven miles to go—I had sixteen miles to go. I had to remember that, and pace myself that way.
18. Little G caught up with me around mile 3, and couldn’t believe I still had my long sleeves on; she’d lost hers early in the race. I had promised myself I’d lose the top shirt at mile 4, when I took my first gel. Having found each other, we kept running together as we made it back to the mainland and struggled through the rest of the middle miles. We knew this was going to be a slow race because of the wind, and it was confirmed for us when we passed the three-miles-to-go spot (going outbound) and the leaders still hadn’t passed us, even though we were one hour into the race. When we finally saw them, and the rest of the speedsters, we couldn’t believe the amount of wind they were fighting off. We knew heading back north towards the finish line was going to be a very windy proposition. Sure enough, after the turnaround, the first gust threw me so off pace that I took a couple steps backward. Little G finally suggested we lose our hats, and that was a huge help.
19. My legs were tired by the middle miles of this race, but I knew I just had to keep moving. When I look at my splits ( 8:49, 8:47; 8:46, 9:05, 9:50, 9:01, 9:03, 8:52, 9:01, 9:05, 9:02, 9:05, 8:40, 7:49), I’m shocked that my slowdown wasn’t more dramatic after mile 9, because I felt like I was moving in slow motion. At the mile 11 aid station, Little G left me, having much more energy in her tank than I did, but I was glad to find a sub-nine mile still left in my legs as I approached the finish line, after all.
20. The half marathon, by the numbers: 1:58:34, or 9:04 pace. I made it into the top third of the field, and the top 20% in both my age group and gender.
21. One more medal . . . we went back into the convention center, the back way, again, to drop off our hardware and my fuel belt and change our shirts. We needed to lose the hats, too. We’d never gotten wet after all, so we didn’t need to change our shoes. On the way back to the chute (again!), we grabbed a bowl of black bean soup, taking only a couple of bites before lining up again.
22. Standing in the chute, we felt immensely tired, and we weren’t the only ones. We were also pretty cold. We had decided not to bring our long sleeve shirts along, and that was probably the right choice; it was in the 60s, and we don’t don long sleeves until temps dip into the 50s. We knew we’d warm up as soon as we started moving. We kept our space blankets around us and found a curb to sit on so we could stay off our feet. Standing there, we could easily spot the rest of the Challengers, also wearing the space blankets to keep from getting too cold.
23. I was feeling so much better than I had the year before, it was frightening. Is that strange? I mean that I didn’t want to get arrogant about definitely finishing well, because I knew I didn’t know how I was gonna feel until I stared running. I knew how I had felt at the end of that half marathon. Starting to run again was going to be painful. There was no way around that, and I knew it.
24. As we were released, another Challenger turned to Little G and I and said, “Is it just me, or does #4 really hurt?” She was right. It hurt to run. A lot. But it also was true that I just had to keep moving—my legs were being obedient. Unlike last year, when my legs were rebelling and refusing to move, this year my legs were responding, and doing so well (splits: 9:01, 9:17, 8:59, 8:56, 8:33). After that miserably slow second mile, Little G sent me on my way, and I started moving increasingly faster. I have a vivid memory of the last aid station at this race (it’s the last aid station at every race, of course, since the races are all run on the same stretch of road)–it’s located about one mile from the finish, and last year, as we approached it, my quads were visibly cramping, so Little G and I took our water and threw it on my legs, trying to get my muscles to cooperate and keep moving. As I passed that spot in the race this time, marking the 29-mile marker on the weekend, I let fly. I couldn’t believe how incredibly strong I felt, how fast I was moving, and how well I was running—in spite of how ridiculously tired and completely spent I felt.
25. The 8k, by the numbers: 45:10 (9:06 pace). I was fast enough to place in the top 25% overall, and the top 15% in my age group and gender.

Post-race: some final thoughts

26. I will always be thankful to my family for allowing me the time and space to do this, in every sense. First, for the grace to put in the training: as you can imagine, this season has been almost as consuming as a marathon training. We’ve put in fewer miles, and no 20-milers, but we’ve been traveling for races more than we ever have before, requiring our families to be flexible and gracious with our schedules, and I’m grateful for them. In addition to that, there’s my family’s special grace on the weekend of Gasparilla, when the Girl had another outbreak of hives and, it turns out, the Boy threw up on Saturday, as I was running the 15k. I write this with tears freely flowing: all three of them made a pact to say nothing of his illness until I had returned home, so that “Mommy could focus on running her best.” I will never, never be able to thank them enough for giving me that race.
27. Crossing the finish line was intensely emotional for me. I have been, each of the last two years, extremely disappointed not to tackle the 26.2 distance. Being able to take on a challenge as formidable as racing one half marathon every month for six consecutive months, with the last one being part of this fantastic, 30-mile, 4-races-in-2-days event, was finally the kind of exhausting, overwhelming, passionate goal that I’d been missing in the last couple of seasons. As I crossed the line, I was humbled and thankful, exhausted and spent.
28. Honestly, I’m still a little bit surprised I pulled it off. When I first considered my goals for this race, I knew I wanted to improve at my times from last year (1:23:31; 29:44; 2:08:31; 51:21). I sat down and considered what pace I thought I could reasonably hold for the race. My cumulative time for the event in 2011 was 4:53:07, or a 9:37 pace, and my dream was to score a 4:30. But when I realized that would mean running sub-9, I threw that goal out the window, and settled on a goal of holding 9:30 pace through the weekend, or accomplishing a 4:49 overall. I knew I’d be happy with that.
29. The Challenge, by the numbers: 30.5 miles in 4:34:12, or 9-minute pace. In the top third of the field, overall; 7^th of 12 in my age group, and 30^th of just 120 women who completed all four events.
30. Yes, I will do this again.

Better than Advertised

2012 A1A Half Marathon

February 19, 2012
Bib Number: 2720
Overall Placement: 634 / 3014 (21%)
Age Group Placement: 38 / 262 (14.5%)
Gender Placement: 225 / 1669 (13.5%)
Chip Time: 1:56:05

As most runners do, Little G and I started watching the forecast for the race location about ten days out from our race. It did not look good. Even from that far out, we could tell that race day was probably going to be warm and humid. We weren’t surprised; late February can be very warm in south Florida, and by early March we’re fully into summertime heat–which explains why so many college kids come here on Spring Break.

This week, we knew for sure that we were in for a brutal race. Temperatures at the beginning of the week were mild as a cool front moved through the area, and I ran in my arm sleeves as late as Wednesday. But this late in the season, cool fronts don’t last long here, and the temperatures trended warmer and warmer on every forecast, peaking–you guessed it–on Sunday.

Little G and I talked briefly about our goals for the race. We both agreed that, of the half marathons we’ve faced this season, this was the one we had the least-defined time goals for. We had great reasoning for our desire to take it fairly easy. First of all, the weather would work against us. Secondly, we have Gasparilla, our true goal race, just two weeks away. If we pushed too hard for a good time in bad conditions, there was a good chance we’d hurt ourselves with not a lot of time to recover before the 30½ miles of racing of March 3 and 4.

We arrived at the race site at around 4:30, having left my house a few minutes after 3. We parked at the finish and took a shuttle to the start, where we hit the porta-potties, then found a convenient staircase so we could get off our feet until the start. We got into the corral with about twenty minutes to go til the start, and I already had to go to the bathroom. It’s a bad feeling, I have to say.

Before the start: We’re standing in the corral, and I know I have to go. But I know it’s hot–probably in the low 70s as we stand there–and I figure I might sweat enough on the course that it won’t be an issue later. I tell Little G I really don’t want to stop on the course, and she commiserates. We take a gel, shuck off the fleeces that I picked up at the thrift store a couple days ago, and get our Garmins ready.

Mile 1: This is the race where I ran my first half marathon, four years ago. All this time later, I still love this start, in front of the Museum of Discovery and Science. Coming out of the corral, we go under a giant United States flag, flying under the colors as they’re held aloft by a fire truck, and my heart swells as we drum forward. Little G and I have agreed to run with music, though we don’t usually, specifically because we have no time goals for the race. I hear the strains of my music fill my ears, and I’m glad I have it along for the ride as I see the crowd around me, all of us pushing forward. We make a slight turn and then are onto Las Olas, where light-wrapped trees greet us as we mark the end of the first mile, which I run in 8:50.

Mile 2: We’re continuing eastbound on Las Olas, and I’m watching Little G, who’s racing just in front of me. I’m thankful for what this means for my pace: for once, I didn’t go out too fast. To be honest, I’m also using her a little bit, allowing her to thread the needle for me as we work through the crowd, but I’m not talking to her so that I don’t pressure her to run with me. Besides, we’re both listening to music, and I don’t want to draw her focus away from her race. I stay a couple paces to her left, and just watch my own pace. Before long, though, I know I need to let her go. She’s starting to push closer to 8:30 or 8:20, and that’s too fast for me this early in the race. I know there’s a good chance I’ll catch her later, and if I don’t, that’s okay too. I watch a gap open up between us and finish this mile in  8:38.

Mile 3: I’ve slowed my pace to a more manageable rate, and I’m fighting with my earbud, which doesn’t want to stay in. I think it’s the humidity, which is making it act funny, and the sweat, which is already pouring into my ears. I’ve been pushing it back into my ear every once in a while, but I know I can’t do that for thirteen miles, and I finally pull out the one earbud I have in. Music isn’t worth the aggravation. We’re approaching the only hill we’ll face all day: the Las Olas Bridge. I know Little G is up ahead of me somewhere, and as we pull up onto the bridge, I hope she’s enjoying it as much as I am, that she’s powering up over it, then letting gravity to do its work as it pulls her down, down, down the hill. There’s been sparse crowd support in the early miles, but as we come down the big hill, we can hear the crowd for the first time, cow bells and cheering and someone with a horn. In spite of the bridge, which should have slowed me down, I finish this mile in 8:35, taking water and Endurolytes for the first time just at the 3-mile marker.

Mile 4: If I plan my calendar right, I get to run a semblance of this course twice: once in the fall, at the 13.1 Fort Lauderdale, and then again at this race. Both times, as we come off the Las Olas bridge, we take a turn northbound onto A1A, and is one of my favorite spots on the course. The energy from the crowd, plus the fact that we’ve just come off the bridge, combines to make my heart sing. We pass a band here, the first one we’ve seen, and we appreciate their encouragement in these tough early miles. I finish this mile in 8:42.

Mile 5: We make a left hand turn, through a tunnel of high-energy spectators, and into Birch State Park. This is a change in the course since the last time we ran it, when we ran through the park at the end of the race. As we run into the park, I make my first strategic mistake, passing a bank of porta potties. But I do know enough to take water from the aid station, knowing how hot and humid it is. I reflect on how different we are, running this race, than running Miami three weeks ago. That crowd was chatty, downright loquacious. But the A1A crowd is quiet, completely sapped of conversation. I figure it’s partly the heat and partly the fact that with a much smaller field of runners, this crowd is much more likely to be taking this race seriously. I join the silence. 8:46.

Mile 6: Spectators aren’t allowed in the park, so it’s just us. We’re not talking, so we’re listening to each other’s breathing. Someone in the pack is struggling to cough something up, and I take a short stretch at sub-8 pace, trying to get away from her. This runs me just behind my favorite kind of sweaty, stinky runner, and I find myself trying to get around him. I take a deep breath and try to find my rhythm again. I can’t avoid other runners all day, and the road is wide enough for all of us. As my head clears, I know I’m making hydration decisions based on my bladder, and I realize I’m going to have to stop or risk not fueling well. The porta potties I passed earlier were at the entrance of the park, so I’ll pass them again on the way out, and I decide to stop then. But as we come up on the park exit, I know I’m going to be in trouble: a steady crowd of runners is streaming into the park behind us. This is the thickest pack of runners, and the slower runners are here. I realize there’s a good chance there’ll be a line now, and sure enough, when I get to the port-o-lets and stop, I’m third in line. I ask the runners ahead of me if they remember from the map when the next potty stop is, and one of them tells me it’s at mile 6. I know we’re already past the 6.5-mark, so that can’t be right. I’ve waited for almost a minute when I duck back into the pack, frustrated. 9:07.

Mile 7: Thankfully, the next porta potty stop is just out of the park, just past the next mile marker. There is no line, and I duck into it, immediately realizing I have hit a runner’s milestone: this is the foulest portable toilet I have ever had the misfortune to step into. I try not to retch as I do what I need to do, and get out as quickly as possible. I had taken a gel and water at mile 5, and I take water and Endurolytes here. I know I lost time stopping for the bathroom not once, but twice, and am concentrating on not trying to make up the time, but just returning to my steady comfortable pace. This mile, straight north on A1A, is one of the longest of the race. Though we’re running along the ocean, it feels long, and though one of my neighbors turns to her partner and says, “More than halfway there!” I find no comfort in that knowledge. 10:20.

Mile 8: We’re starting the turn inland, which I’m delighted about. Little G looked at the course map, and it looks like the turnaround is at about 8.5. That turning point is a carrot before me right now. I was passed by the leaders as I was running up A1A at about mile 7, and am now enjoying being passed by the age groupers. As we approach the mile-8 marker, I see a water station ahead, and I tuck two Endurolytes into my cheek, anticipating taking a cup of water to swallow them when I get to the water station. Alas, the station is only giving water to the runners on the right side of the course, and I run on like an endurance chipmunk, salt caplets in cheek. As I run on, waiting for the turn that never comes, I inwardly berate whoever was responsible for drawing the course map. I finish this mile in 8:47.

Mile 9: A small Hispanic runner and I have been keeping pace together most of the race, and I’ve enjoyed pacing off of him. But he’s starting to push an 8:15 pace, and I know it’s too early for me to push that hard. I let him go. As we approach the water station that I couldn’t reach earlier, I take water and a second gel. Just past this aid station, a random homeowner is also handing out bananas and lukewarm beer. Really? 8:32.

Mile 10: In most of my races, I start doing math at this point, allowing myself, for the first time, to look at the clock and calculate what my finish time might be: whatever’s on the clock plus 28 minutes or so if I can hold a nine-minute pace, plus 25 minutes if I can hold eight-minute pace. But today, I promise myself I won’t do that. I have no time goal for this race, and I really just want to run by feel. I know I have a 5k to go, so I want to start pushing, but I want to die at mile 13, not 11. Indeed, I do struggle in this mile, and the clock tells the story: save my potty miles, this is my slowest mile of the day, coming in at 9:11.

Mile 11: We’ve hit A1A again, and the ocean is on our left. The sun is up now, and I throw my sunglasses on: it’s time to get fierce. I see the many runners on our right, still going outbound, and catch a few marathon bibs. Those runners still have twenty miles to go. On a day like today, with temperatures climbing, that’s no small order, and I pray for them silently. I’m concentrating on hydrating well, taking water at almost every aid station, and pushing the Endurolytes as steadily as I’m pushing my pace. 8:33.

Mile 12: It’s time to go. All around me, runners are struggling, but two young women are running together, easily, one wearing a NY Athletic Club tank. As we passed the last mile marker, they were doing the math and noting that they were sub-10-minute mile pace. Sub-10? We’re sub-9! I love that they had no idea how fast they’d be on the day. I love that they’re running easy enough, even this late in the race, that they can still talk. I begin to pace off them, staying slightly behind them as we run. They have a steady, predictable pace, running without surges. We’re coming up on my short Hispanic runner, who tries to hold pace with us but eventually falls back. We finish this mile together in 8:26. I know I’m pushing the pace, but I’m comfortable with my push.

Mile 13: As we come closer to the close of the race, I remember how much I don’t like the finish here, and I start muttering inwardly. But spectators are faithfully cheering for us, and I try to remember not to be bitterly angry when they tell me I’m almost there–it’s not their fault I’ve almost run myself into the ground. I’ve run around my NYC girls, and I’ve caught up to Little G. I consider running with her, or challenging her to a race, but to be honest, I don’t have the breath or energy to do it, and I don’t know what she has left in the tank. I pass her without comment instead, without even a passing glance–yes, this is the kind of training partner I am. I keep picking out tow ropes, allowing them to draw me closer little by little because my legs feel utterly finished. Then, up ahead, I see a purple tutu, and I groan inwardly. Something in me refuses to be beaten by a woman wearing a tutu. I push to make a pass, and as I leave her behind, I know that wasn’t a clean pass. I am so tired and spent that there is every possibility all I’ve done is fuel Purple Tutu for a late-lace surge; she might very well pass me back, and if she does, I’ve got nothing left to respond with. I mentally scold myself for my immaturity, finishing the mile in 8:16.

the last .2, according to Garmie: I can finally, kind of, see the finish: at this race, the finish is hidden behind an s-curve, so that as you approach it, you literally have to be upon it to see it, which makes those calls of “you’re almost there” all the more maddening. As I pass the 13-mile marker and still can’t see the finish, I’m convinced that (a) I’m going to throw up; (b) my legs are going to seize up and quit; (c) purple tutu is going to smoke me right at the finish; (d) I’ll pass out and wake up in the hospital, medal-less, having failed at the six in six quest. Instead, I run into the finish at 7:23 pace, pushing through the volunteers who are handing out medals, bend my head for the last one, and grab two waters, deeply desirous of putting my head in the icy vat instead.

Little G crosses the line about 45 seconds behind me, as spent as I am, unable to speak, and we walk together to the car.

Unfortunately, not being familiar with the course, we not only parked at the finish, we parked on the finish, literally on the race course, so we immediately knew we weren’t going to leave until the race was over–the course was due to close at 12 noon, or six hours after gun time. We changed our shoes, grabbed a change of clothes, and went to check our results. After a great breakfast, we cheered in the marathoners on the last half-mile of the course, getting to see everyone who finished between three-and-a-half and six hours. It was, actually, a great finish to our own race, and we might do that more often.

Twenty-four hours post race, I’m not too sore, and am planning an easy return to running. Gasparilla is just twelve days away, and all our training has been for this one event. I am amused at my finish at this race, considering how warm it was; why didn’t I do this well at Miami? I am reminded that racing is about mind as well as the course and course conditions–my head just wasn’t in gear when I ran in Miami, and I paid for it. By contrast, I was dreading an absolutely awful race at A1A, and I got a much better result than the conditions had led me to expect. I’m thankful for a good race to get ready for my last challenge of the season and the reminder that no matter the weather, I can make the best of it.

A final note about the weather: when we started, the air temperature was 72 degrees, with 91% humidity. Those 4-hour finishers we were cheering on faced temperatures of 80 degrees, with a heat index of 83. For them, the winds had picked up, and they also had to contend with winds of 10mph, gusting to 18. As for the six-hour finishers, they were finishing up at noon, so they faced constant breezes of 12 mph, gusting to 22. As for their temperatures, their air temperature was 84. Let me just say, facing 26.2 in South Florida is not for the weak. My heartfelt admiration to all of you who conquered that race yesterday. You are all rock stars in my book.

 

(5+5)+16

That was my weekend.

This is the last weekend of training before half marathons 5 and 6. The A1A Half Marathon in Fort Lauderdale is next Sunday, and the Gasparilla races are two weekends after that. Because of the heavy mileage of the Gasparilla races will require of our legs, Little G and I will not do a lot of heavy training after this: we will do no long runs or speedwork. Therefore, like I said, this was the last weekend of training: we have reached the taper.

As I said earlier, I didn’t get to do much running this week; I got in a six-mile tempo run Monday, and a two-mile run Wednesday. We had a ten-miler scheduled for Friday, and a long run between fourteen and eighteen miles for Saturday. I wasn’t sure how I was going to fit in ten miles on Friday, since the Boss had gone into the office after returning from his business trip to the Golden State. I figured I’d get in whatever mileage I could before I had to go get the kids.

I got home around 12:30 and figured I could get in at least five easy miles before I took a shower and went to pick up the kids. Mind you, at this point, I knew the Boss was back in town, but we had missed each other all day: he had landed in Miami, about an hour south of us, at the same time we were waking up, and we spoke on the phone. He was dropped off at home after I left the house to meet with a sweet young woman I disciple about thirty minutes south, and I missed him there again.

So you can’t blame me for dilly-dallying about leaving the house for my run. I knew I had to get it in, but I also knew there was an outside chance he was coming home for lunch. Finally, when I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer, I started down our street–and wouldn’t you know it? Coming down our street was the best sight ever: the Boss’s 1999 silver Toyota 4Runner. I stopped to kiss him, and told him I’d come back to the house, but he encouraged me to keep running, knowing how much I needed to get these miles in. I kept running, but when I got to the half-mile marker, I turned around for home, longing to see the Boss. I hadn’t seen him for a week!

We wouldn’t get too much time together, though; he had a conference call he needed to be on, so we talked for a few minutes before I headed back out and finished my five-miler, making sure I returned to the house in time to grab my car keys and get the kids (yes, this meant I would be stinky for pick-up, but spending time with my husband got top priority over a shower). By the time I got home, though, he’d finished his call, and was eager to see the kids, so he offered to go get them from school. Since he was going to be able to be home for the rest of the day, I decided to not to shower right away, but to change shirts, wait about an hour, and then put in another five miles to finish the day’s originally-scheduled ten.

The first five I put in under dark skies, occasionally being misted on, and being reminded of the 2009 Gasparilla Marathon, with the rain and wind. I was thankful that I only had five miles to put in, and that bailing on the run was always an option. I was a little concerned that I had chosen to wear my new shoes for the run, but in the end I never really got a good soaking, just got a little sprinkled on for portions of the run.

The second five, though, were blisteringly hot. The rain had moved through, bringing in incredibly high humidity. When the sun came out, the conditions combined to create almost a summer-like feeling in the air, making it a very different run from my earlier one, just an hour earlier.

Neither Little G nor I were entirely committed to the Saturday long run, and we thought about cutting it way short from the very start. We set out knowing that we’d go as far as our legs and hearts took us; this close to race day, there’s just no sense in pushing too hard. Heroics are for race day. In the end, though, we took it really slow, and by doing that we were able to go the distance. As soon as our Garmins beeped for the sixteen miles, though, we stopped; we ended up walking the extra mile back to the car, which is unheard of for us. On a regular training run, if we overshoot our distance, we run it home, but on this one, we were absolutely determined not to overdo it.

And there you are: we have reached taper. I’m having a hard time saying this, but three weeks from today, the entire project will be over. We will, God willing, have raced one half marathon every month for six consecutive months. Though at times the training has felt intensely difficult, tiring, and time consuming, I am excited for what is ahead, and thankful that my favorite event of all is my finish line.