"Are We There Yet?"

This is the typical sentence my kids aways seem to ask on the in the car on the road. Particually for my six year old, this question is the one that always comes when she simply cannot wait to get out and to the destination. Usually this is to Grandma's house in LA or, as was the case this past weekend, to a friend's house for a party or playdate. Sometimes it is because they have to use the potty or they are bored and anxious. This phrase about exactly sums up where I was this morning in the pool.

I have commited to moving back up to my "nomal" lane. Back in Decemeber when I had bronchitis, I moved down a lane slower since my lung capacity was about nothing. I fell right into the groove of swimming my newfound slower guys and it felt so good, I have never gone back. Comfort over effort. Call me lazy (some of my original lane mates have), but it was actually a relaxing experience to be at the workout. Instead of desperately clinging to the feet in front of me, I was able to causally float as caboose in this new lane.

However, I know a better swimmer this will not make me. So, I have asked the girls in the previous lane for some accountability, and this morning, they were all over that. I wanted very much to slink into the lane further North, but my girls were having none of that. Sadly for me, today a guy by the name of Ben, a former coach for the team, was in town visiting. He got in and he lead the lane...even faster than I anticipated.

Maybe it was because my shin was still throbbing from having kicked the tarp cart as we were pulling them off. (Is that the term, by the way? Tarp "cart"? What does one call the contraption we roll the tarps onto, anyway?)Maybe it was because I no longer come with latte in hand to the deck. Maybe it was because I didn't feel like getting out to pee (I held it, by the way). The set was awful and the whole time I was thinking, "Are we almost done yet? Are we there yet????"

100 swim, 75 stroke, 200 swim, 75 stroke, 300 swim, 75 stroke, 400 swim, 75 stroke.
The swims were supposed to be breath control, breathing every other side or something. Breath control for me was trying not to get hypoxic and control some breath...that is, actually get it to enter my lungs. I was clawing for the feet in front of me, trying desperately to hang on. That 400 loomed like a bad omen, but I was so happy to reach that final 75 at the very end.

This represents a set that is semi okay for me to handle, due to the fact that the stroke work in there is a much needed break. I still hyperventilate when I see a 400 on the board, but it would have been worse if it were all swim in a pyramid and then back down again. It just kills me to know that Marc's taper this week will "only" be 3000 a workout. For me, that would be an Olmypic standard. I don't know how those swim geeks do it? Lap after lap, turn after turn, as if it is nothing. I think I swam 2000 today and that was a huge day.

I really wanted out of that lane and to my final destination: the shower. Perhaps I need to be more sympathetic to my kids when they ask the predictable question. My lane mates were not so much with me. They chidded me for getting out when I did, chest still heaving and arms exhausted. I was so happy the clock read what it did: time to get out and get home to the little people.

Am Runner

That is the title of this blog and that is who I am. I went to the gym and lifted today at 4 am, then raced over to the track to meet up with the group. The workout was 2 times 20 minutes at tempo pace.

What exactly is "tempo"? I am not even sure of what my pace should be, but I think I was running around 6:40, as far as I could tell. I lost the rest of the group because some decided to do 4 by 10 minutes at tempo instead. A few fell off the back in favor of hitting the pool. That left me running alone in the dark. Am runner. Yep. It was hard and it was early, but it was great. I had to adjust my attitude at first, and then I was there. My hamstring still aches, but I tried to ignore it. I am looking forward to a long Saturday run at a comfortable pace again. I miss Tracy terribly, but I must say, I love Jen and our pace.

My girl came home from school and told me how disappointed she was that no one would run with her at lunch. They have a group called "Road Runners" that encourages the kids to run laps around the field during lunch. She mostly loves it and looks forward to participating. Usually she runs with her friend, Mason. Today she was sad that she did not have a "running buddy". This is funny, because I shared with her my same delimma hours earlier. It occured to me that anything is more fun with friends, including exercise, but sometimes, it is nice to blow off some steam in the silence of our own heads.

Is this a universal thought? Are we trained from a very young age to do everything in a partnership or group? Why do we feel at a loss or shunned if we are running solo? I must admit, I eventually got into a groove, but I still felt a little self-conscious running alone when I passed by random people from track coming the opposite direction. Why? Ridiculous. I tried to adjust my attitude to believe that I was ultra cool and completely comfortable in my isolation. I almost convinced myself by the time I caught up with one of my "running buddies" in the trails with 8 minutes left of the second set.

I'm A Spaz, I'm A Spaz, I'm A...

...Spaz, Spaz, Spaz.........
But I am so happy because my coach gave me a new calendar to follow and it feels like crack. I am already totally addicted to it. Like heroin, I cannot stop thinking about the new plan and I am already dreaming about running the marathon in 10 1/2 weeks. I love the idea of long, EASY runs on the weekends. As sad as I am to say good bye to Tracy (and she is injured with a hamstring overuse deal right now), I am looking forward to the solace and low-key runs I will be partaking in.

OHHHHHHHHHHH, I'm a Spaz, Spaz, Spaz!

I Defeated Myself, More Accurately

This is the word from the coach and her word is the law, right? My track coach told me I left my race on the training course by running a 26 mile marathon 5 weeks out, followed by 18 miles at pace, 22 miles at pace, 22 miles faster than race pace, and then 8 miles where I felt dead but dragged myself along at pace. She was not surprised to learn my LA time.
I ran too fast on those long runs. The mileage was acceptable, but not the pace. Interesting. I ruined my race with my training that I felt so good about. I felt so good while training. How can something that feels so right be so wrong? Dunno. We cannot always operate on emotions, I guess. Sometimes we need to face the consequences of our actions and take responsibility for the repercussions. The marathon didn't beat me. I beat myself (or, beat myself up?).
I think I feel better about this. It is not as scary of a prospect. I am more in control of my destiny, not the Monster that I thought was behind the wheel. It seems more tangable and maybe even fixable. It is not this huge enigma now. There might actually be an equation I can work out. Can I really maybe fix it? I simply cannot put my mind around the fact that I have to give up my Kenyan running partner and run 45 to 60 seconds slower per mile for my long runs. That sounds, well, slow. Bummer. I am willing to try, however, and see where it takes me for Rock N Roll and maybe even Long Beach? I am thinking about kissing the idea of the CAF Half Ironman goodbye and making this a marathoning year. Something about that sounds very romantic. My love affair with 26.2 continues.....

It Defeated Me

The monster defeated me. The marathon. It is an enigma. Why? How can one person be so inconsistent? I did everything the same as I did 5 weeks ago....except, my heart was not into it this morning. I wanted to quit before I began and that was only the beginning.

We arrived at the start by 6:30 am for an 8:15 race start. Things were chaotic and crazy from the beginning. Apparently it was my responsibility to double check at the expo that I was assigned the right bib color to be in the correct corral. Hmmm. I did not know this, nor did I think there would be an error, since I had long ago mailed in proof of past sub 4 hour marathon times. There I was, regular white bib and not the green one I was told I needed to be in the front corral. They turned me away, so there I stood in the back with the 11 minute milers. This, I would soon learn, was the highlight of my long and grueling day.

8:24 am we started, 9 minutes longer in the clauserphobic mass of stinky people, crammed into the chaotic start and baking in the already searing sun. The man I was having a conversation with called it: "I wish this f*#@%ing thing was over already." When I protested that it had no yet even begun, he replied, "Yes, I know. It will be whatever it will be. We always know early on what kind of day we are going to have out there, regardless of the training." This was foreshadowing at its best, applicable to my real life senario to come.

I had met another young guy who was aiming for a 3:25 marathon. He was very relaxed and composed and I liked his approach to the beast before us. He was not at all stressed about the corral situation, nor did he care. He had 6 GUs on a special belt, flapping behind him as we took off. I dubbed him "GU Man" and ran on his heels until mile 8. We came through right at one hour, exactly. It was at this mile marker, I knew it was going to have to be a training run for me. Right off the bat, I had a side stitch. Why? I rarely EVER get side cramps, and here this one was jumping back and forth from left to right side, making itself at home in my ribcage. So, by mile 8, it was no surprise to me that I felt terrible. I began drinking fluids. I drank and I drank and I drank and was amazed that I had no desire to visit a port-a-potty. I was dumping cup after cup over my head by mile 10, and yet I was bone dry by the next water station....these stations were at every single mile.

I was actually surprised to think how quickly the aid stations kept rolling by, but more dismayed that my legs were toast. I literally had nothing in them. It was an out of body experience. These were not my legs...they felt tired and heavy. I was literally exhausted, beat, defeated by mile 10. I considered quitting. I couldn't decifer which was worse: running a 4 hour marathon or stopping? I decided it would be worse in the eyes of my little people if I came home with no medal. I braced myself for a very long day. I have never, ever, never walked as early as mile 10 in a marathon until this day. I walked through the water station at mile 10 and took in more water still. The advice that was given to me by a running friend was to "run contently". For me on this day, "contently" meant walking. There was no way around that.

Did I mention it was hot? It was dreadful. The pavement seemed to reflect the glare times ten. I was wishing for a pair of sunglasses and I never run in shades. Running along Rossmore Street was the only repreve from the sun under the big, beautiful trees that lined the community. Miles 11 through 13 dragged on forever. I crossed the half marathon in 1:44, I think, still sub 3:30 pace, but I knew I was slowing by the minute. I think it might have been mile 17 that the 3:30 pace group passed me. Some guy yelled to me to jump on. "Yeah, right," I was thinking. My only objective at that point was to hold on to some dignity and perhaps cross the finish line under 4 hours. I felt like my legs were simply dead weight. My right hamstring felt as though someone was taking a sledge hammer to it repeatedly. Mile 18ish was novel in that Sprint Phone company was on the course, offering to allow runners to call family and friends. People in yellow shirts were literally running up next to us with phones in hand, offering to dial the digits. I gave my yellow guy Marc's digits. "Honey, I am off pace. I am going to be late," I reported. It felt good to let him know I was alive, but I felt bad he would have to wait that much longer for me at the finish. At least that pressure was off.

My mile 20, I still had some hope to run 3:40, but that dream was quickly squashed when I was reduced to walking through yet another water station. I knew it was over. The dream was fading fast. I was delirious, at best. Then I saw GU Man. He was way off pace and fading even faster. "Come on, GU Man!" I yelled as I shuffled by him on my stick legs. He kind of mumbled back, "I'm, I'm, I'm not well. I can't...I really can't..." He was crusty with white salt all over his face. I ran along side him until I realized his pace was even slower than my shuffle and that I had to combat the misery in my own mind without taking on any more from someone else. My own private agony was overwhelming, so I was forced to keep moving without him.

I began to realize there were fire trucks and firemen everywhere, attaching apparatuses to every fire hydrant and turning on the water. The spray was a welcome break. I could not get enough water into and onto my body fast enough. The little kids lining the streets of the poorest neighborhoods with their Dixie cups of water drove me to tears. I am such a fool to think I should even be sad about my poor marathon time. Did it really matter looking at their little faces? How tragic that I should even care about something so trivial as a time when I was faced with the conditions they live in? These awful neighborhoods we were trying to survive running through were the conditions of their every day survival. How shallow am I? Could I get a grip on some perspective here? Was the marathon even a challenge now?

I basically ran/walked from mile 21 to the finish. I have never been reduced to walking as much of a marathon as I did today. I felt like I was in a foreign body and I did not even care. I was numb. My only goal was to get to the finish and sit down in the car waiting for me there. Mile 25 was a beautiful banner to behold. I found my legs and RAN the last 1. 2 in, crowd going wild along the sidelines for all of us on cramping stick legs up the last dreaded hill. Truth be told, I got my one wish: it was a vomit-free marathon and I am so grateful for that. It meant little to me that the clock read 3:57 at the finish. 20 freaking minutes slower than the marathon 5 weeks ago. Why? Are my legs tired? Am I over-trained? Am I not a warm weather runner? I am tired of even trying to analyze the situtaion, and I really do not even care. I was never so happy to see my sweet husband smiling at me as I pushed my way through the mobbed shoot past the finish line. He looked at me in such a way, that I knew it didn't matter. None of this matters. He is the love of my life and my greatest support. I cried when I saw him. Not because I was completely disappointed in myself, but more because seeing him reminded me of what is most important in the grand scheme of things.

Now I can cross this marathon off my list and never consider running it again. I really did not enjoy anything about the course and would not recommend it to anyone. I mostly felt sad for any virgin marathoners out there. I felt like the whole experience did not represent the beauty of what a race could be. Not just because I had a bad day, but because the whole time felt hostile and hot and dirty. The volunteers were hostile, the air was hot and the streets were dirty. I cannot wait to go soak all of the filth of the day off in my family's hot tub tonight. These are the experiences that make us stronger. We are better athletes because we can chalk anything up to a learning experience. I still love the marathon. I will never give up on the distance. It is one of the more complicated things in my life of which I cannot let go.