Philly Marathon: Go Team Go!

I never thought a marathon was a team event. Until I ran one with Abby.

Leading up to the Philadelphia Marathon I had no goals. I knew I had the endurance to finish, thanks to a year of trail runs and adventure races. I knew, though, that I didn't have the speed to come close to a PR, let alone the new and improved BQ times.

Leaving me with what to shoot for? I was as aimless as humanly possible when it came to a goal. Prior to Philly, I'd run five other marathons -- Philadelphia in 2001, Steamtown in 2002 (at the time I had the goal of running a marathon a year, I failed), Columbus in 2009, Boston and New York in 2010. Goals were clear-cut to me (finish, finish faster than at Philly, qualify for Boston, have a shit-ton of fun at Boston, beat my Boston time at New York, respectively).

Abby was in it to enjoy it, and that didn't sound like too bad of a plan. We decided to cross the start line together and I had 3:45:00 in my head as a number to shoot for just to keep me moving forward -- a bit better than my average marathon time so I couldn't just mosey along but obtainable without feeling like hell, hopefully.

I didn't even hit snooze on race morning. I was up by 5, on my second cup of coffee by 5:15, decided against a third, stuffed an Eggo with peanut butter into my face, properly lubed, dressed, deoderized and was actually ready to go when Abby and her crew rolled by to pick me up at 5:40.

By 6:20 we were at the race site and were in the longest portapotty line in the history of the universe. Actually, the line itself wasn't too long -- the people in front of us were apparently giving birth and/or performing minor surgeries in there and were taking forever and ever. Finally I gave up, got out of line and peed between a rock and a tree while pretending no one could see me -- the start was getting close.

Abby and I parted ways with her people and headed to the start together. The plan? Run together until we didn't. Have a good time. And, for me, don't do anything stupid in the first half -- all my other marathons came with positive second-half splits of 7 to 15 minutes. Terrible. F.

We crossed the start about 7 minutes after the gun and dodged our way over, under, around and through other runners and walkers for the first mile -- hit the marker at right around 9 minutes. A little slower than I would have liked but, eh. The weather was great, the company was great, I was happy, the road was flat.

Just before mile 2 I had a cheerleader -- an old coworker from an old job out bright and early to push along the runners. I was amused and surprised to see her, so yay.

And then, another familiar face -- Abby's husband Brent. "Look, there he is," Abby basically whispered to me. Among the footfalls of a zillion runners on a packed course, he, oddly, did not hear her whisper.  "BREEENNNNT!," I yelled and then pointed at him and jumped up and down a bit. It worked -- he saw us.

Friends of friends who managed to recognize me and a drumline (my favorite thing during races) made the next few miles tick by. Abby and I chatted about nothing in particular as we weaved around more runners and held a comfortable 8:35 pace.

As we hit mile five, a thought popped into my brain. Should I share it? "Dare I say it?," I said to Abby. "I think I am actually having fun."

"I wasn't going to say it out loud," she said, "but I am, too."

As we approached mile 5, there was Brent again. This time he saw us and started snapping away with his camera.

I sort of love this picture -- we both look thrilled

to be running!

The crowd (that had already been pretty solid) grew thicker and louder. I knew that about mile 6, where I set up shop last year for my first cheering spot, would be the first likely mile where Bill would be on his bike. And sure enough, there he was.

"Bill! Bill! Bill! BILL! BILLLL!," I screamed (apparently I get very excited when I see people I know while running marathons). He saw us and waved. He knows better than to ignore my big mouth but we were so damn fast he wasn't able to get any pictures.

Motivated by the unexpectedly loud and large crowds, the next several miles flew by. We chatted about whatever -- mostly adventure racing, I think, and before we knew it we were smelling the Philadelphia Zoo. Barf. I don't do stink while running and the smell of caged elephants and monkeys and lions and tigers and bears and lemurs and aardvarks and whatever made me a bit gaggy but I kept that to myself. Plus, I had more important things to think about -- the only significant hill of the course was right in front of us.

Abby and I didn't increase our effort as we steadily climbed the hill. Some runners around us started to struggle but we'd run this part of the course twice on two of our longer runs. We knew it wasn't that long, or that steep and that we'd be met at the top by about a mile of flat followed by a short, steep downhill so we kept things in control.

"Man, I can't believe we've already run what, like 8 miles?," I commented. I hadn't been paying close attention to mile markers and would check in only occasionally with Abby and her Garmin about our pace. "Try 10 miles," she said.

Yep, the miles were flying by. We were running solidly and comfortably and were right on pace for a 3:45 finish.

As the course dropped us along the Schuylkill River, Bill found us again. This time he was ready with the camera.

We also saw something crazy -- people dressed like bacon, grilled cheese and pizza dancing around. Silly! Soon signs were directing people running the full in one direction, the half in the other. I couldn't believe we were almost at the 13.1-mark. As we peeled in one direction and the half runners peeled into the other, we hit the middle at about 1:52 and some change.

At the mile 14 water stop I was bolstered by two friends handing out cups. Damn, they were loud. Just past them a dude dressed like Batman was playing the theme song to Rocky on a trombone. Abby was absolutely thrilled by this. I, however, have never seen Rocky despite living in Philly for more than 15 years so I didn't know what was happening.

As we chugged along on the out-and-back I realized Abby was in for a huge PR unless something unhappy happened. I tried to be extra-careful to knock her down, trip or kick her or punch her -- didn't want to ruin her day.

Outward bound. Can you spot us?

Next up was a detour from the main out-and-back -- about a mile across a bridge, down a hill, around a cone, back up the hill and back over the bridge. I'd been mentally dreading this part all morning -- not sure why, but I was. Just as we were about to reach the bridge a friend of Abby's let us know that Brent was waiting for us at the turnaround cone. Yay! Something to look forward to. I zoomed down the hill and was eager to see another familiar face.

I don't remember feeling as dead serious as

I look in the top picture. 

As we spun around the cone I was elated. "I was dreading that part! And now it's over!," I must have repeated enough times to make Abby want to sprint far, far away from me. Mostly I was just happy that both brain and body were still into the race.

We both started to get a bit bored about a mile or so later. "Talk to me about something," Abby requested. Do you know how hard it is to think of things to talk about when someone asks you to say words? Uhhhhh...

All I could think about was racing. I peppered Abby with questions about the race she was most scared of at the start line, her favorite race, her first race, her last race, her thoughts on race relations, race race race.

As we slogged into Manayunk the crowds grew louder and drunker. And we started to pass a lot of runners. People were starting to struggle. I felt a bit bad too, but, surprisingly, only a bit -- Abby started to pick up the pace and I was happy to tuck behind her. Then we passed a group of people handing out little cups o' beer and I dry-heaved. I like beer as much as (ok, probably more than) the next person, but not at mile 21.5 of a marathon.

"Oh, God, there's beer, I am going to puke," I said, as I darted as far away from the beer as I could. Fortunately, I didn't actually barf.

The course dumped us back alongside the river and I realized we only had four miles to go. Four miles? That's a prologue in an adventure race, a distance I can manage on a treadmill, 32 minutes and some change until the finish, depending on how well I was able to keep it together.

Let's go! I was feeling better than I ever had at mile 22 of a marathon. Usually at mile 22 I am wanting to cry and contemplating burning all running shoes/shorts/shirts/tights/hats/gloves/gus/water bottles/etc. and never running again.

This time ,though, was different.

I started to run a bit harder, not so much that it hurt yet but enough that I knew that it would before I crossed the finish line. Gradually, Abby and I began to pull apart. I peeked over my shoulder a few times -- she was still right back there but I decided I wanted to be done and I knew she would finish with a nastyhuge PR with or without me so I dropped my pace into the high 7s/low 8s, hoping to hold that for the duration.

Bill found me again. I wasn't smiling quite as big as I had been -- slowly but surely I was starting to hurt but I really thought I could hang on. I was actually passing people and the fact that I didn't seem to be hurting as much as many of the runners around me gave me a bit of motivation -- I apparently wasn't going to shit the bed with only three miles to go.

I passed my buddies at the water stop again -- they seemed to be having the most fun of all. Bill rode on the path just off the course and snapped a few more pictures.

 So many spectators!

I have no idea who I am smiling at in this picture.

I wasn't sure what to do -- most of the people around me were grumpy and many were walking. A few were crying and a few were saying "fuck" a lot. I needed someone ungrumpy and unhurting to motivate me. I scanned the runners around me and settled in on Purple Shirt. She looked like she'd been at mile 24 of a marathoon before, and looked like she wanted to finish strong. I made myself promise to myself that I wouldn't let her get more than 15 feet in front of me.

And then she picked up the pace a bit. Purple Shirt, were you trying to kill me? I hung on, barely, and managed to convince myself that I could hang on for the 18 or so minutes of running still ahead of me.

Thank you Purple Shirt, whomever you are.

I am not going to lie -- mile 24.5 to about mile 25.5 sucked. My lungs were unhappy, my legs were tired and my brain was starting to go. But then the crowd got huger and louder and I started smiling like a bobo. Suddenly I was so happy again. I didn't notice the last little incline as I rounded a bend to find the finish line staring me in the face. I ran as hard as I could for the last 100 meters or so, and that was that.

Chip time: 3:43:46. Fine by me. I worked my way to the gear check truck, threw on some warms (although the day was actually sunny and quite warm for Philly in mid-November) and met up with Bill, Abby, Brent and Abby's family before slogging about a mile to brunch/beer/breakfast/coffee.

Abby had a 9-minute PR. Nine minutes. NINE MINUTES. I would sell my soul for a PR like that. And she seemed to have fun while doing it, too. My big achievement for the day was a negative split -- only by a few seconds, but I fianlly didn't crash and burn in the second half of a marathon.

A nice little Sunday.

THE END

If I Knew It Was That Kind of Party I Would've Worn Pants

I am going to start at the end. We won our co-ed 2 division of 14 teams at The Edge sprint adventure race Sunday. I don't want to be like that kid we all knew in high school who swore she failed a test and then set the curve but I don't want the fact that we placed well to negate the fact that we weren't overly happy with the way we raced the race.

Bill and I both know that we should have done better and shouldn't have left more than one, if any, checkpoints on the course. When we both realized we weren't going to clear the course we both yelled fuck. A lot. With some shits and dammits thrown in just to keep things from getting too boring.

The first four hours were sort of great. After a brief opening orienteering segment (teams had to find 6 checkpoints and could split up -- I found my three points all by myself like a big girl! And Bill fell into a thorn bush, rendering him covered in blood a mere 15 minutes into the race! Excitement!) we were on our bikes for a sprint to another checkpoint that would serve as the main transition area for the race.

A friendly volunteer handed us our passports and we learned that we would be heading out for the foot section first -- teams were randomly assigned foot, bike, canoe or special challenges. Eleven points that we hoped to clear. And we did, but not after ripping through some nasty thorn bushes, barbed wire(!), brier, a creek crossing or five, a thorn to my eye, a wrong turn (although I managed to figure out where we were in about two minutes by looking at the map ... I helped with navigation! Redonk!) and lots of running.

The course was great -- challenging but not impossible even for first-time teams and the design took advantage of the park terrain and features. The entire race was rogaine format -- each checkpoint was optional and had a point value. The team with the most points wins. A tie goes to the team with the fastest overall time.

Our legs were shredded, bloody disasters by the time we worked our way back into transition. I wore capris and bike shorts and Bill just wore shorts. Had we known that we'd spend more time dragging ourselves through thorns than on trail we would have worn pants.

If you don't like grody legs, skip over these pictures that you've probably already seen by now. In real life, Bill isn't bow-legged. And I also like how my leg has "XTC" carved into it. One of my favorite bands from high school, hooray!

We dropped our bikes and sprinted (sort of ) to the canoe put-in. Four points up- and down-stream. The down was easy and the up wasn't as bad as we thought aside from one narrow section of the creek where we were sprinting paddle-style and getting nowhere. I was expecting the paddle to take more than an hour but we were out of the water in about 45 minutes. Sweet, because after the Storm the Eastern Shore paddle everything else in a boat is boring.

Special challenges were next. For some reason, challenges seem to be a staple of just about every sprint race. And, frankly, I think that they are silly so I am not going to go into detail. Here's a tip, though: Never have a medical emergency if you are stuck with me or Bill in the wild. One of the challenges was a wilderness first-aid quiz. We failed miserably. Several times. Although we did mock ourselves a little and giggle a lot so that was sweet.

We headed out on our bikes with about two hours before the 6-hour race cutoff. After that points would be deducted for every five minutes we were late. We pushed the pace and found the first few bike points easily.

Then the trail got technical, at least for me. I had to get off and carry my bike over boulders and other junk that I didn't think I could ride.

And then we couldn't find a point. In hindsight we probably blew right past it without noticing but instead we rode around several fields for a while, getting progressively more frustrated as we realized we weren't going to clear the course. At one point we were even on our bikes in a pumpkin patch with toddlers and their parents. A bit disoriented were we.

Then we ran into the nicest team ever. They ended up coming in right behind us in our division and it was their first race of all time. Silly overachievers. We agreed to team up to find one of the bike checkpoints that was a bit confusing on the map, especially considering that we weren't entirely sure where we were.

It only took us about 10 minutes to get to the point we were looking for. A bit off the bike trial, the CP rested in a pit of steaming green and black filth. I made Bill go get it. And then felt bad because I started having flashbacks to Artax getting sucked into a swamp in The Neverending Story and got concerned that Bill was next.



I felt less bad just now when Bill watched this clip and said it reminded him more of when the swamp tried to eat me in the Storm the Shore.

We were down to 30 minutes and had neglected four points. We still had to check back into the transition area before continuing on to the finish line -- a ride that was all uphill. Not what we had hoped for. We quickly nabbed one more point (well, sort of quickly ... we only found it because I was stomping around having a minor temper tantrum because the point wasn't right where we thought it was when I happened to look up and see it on top of a rocky hill), sped back to transition and then headed off for the uphill slog to the finish.

We ened up in a line of more than 30 teams, all trying to cross the finish before the 6-hour cutoff. I've never seen a finish like it in the 20 or so adventure races I've done. Usually teams trickle across the line one at a time, minutes or even hours apart.

This, however, was a hot mess of teams all going for broke, not wanting to lose any points for crossing the finish too late. Some teams were going for broke better than others and, not to sound like a dick, some got in my way. The uphill trail was single-and double-track, and some teams got a bit tired and just hopped off their bikes and stood there, getting in everyone else's way. Sort of inconsiderate and, as we were in a bit of a rush to, you know, finish the race in time, I was pissed. We finally just rode a bit off trail to get around people and when the trail gave way to a giant open hill we pushed to the top.

Bill was off and riding and I realized I could run with my bike faster than I could pedal. I hoppped off, picked up my old Trek and ran up the hill. Lungs burned, legs hated me, but we got there with several minutes to spare.

We slumped over to our car, Bill threw the bikes onto the roof and we discussed what went wrong. A few minor nav errors, a lack of first aid knowledge -- but what it seemed to come down to was that we just hadn't gone fast enough to clear the course. Another 20 or 30 minutes and had we not blown past that one bike CP, we could have done it.

But we didn't do it. And we were grumpy.

As the results were posted and we saw that we won our division, our grumpiness was only mildly mitigated. And the sweet beer stein and Road ID gift card that were our prizes helped a bit more, too.

Alas, AR season is officially over for us. At least it ended on a fun, well-designed course. The rogaine style meant that most teams finished in the last 30 minutes of the race-- the winners cleared, the newer teams didn't, but everyone got to be on the course for just about the full six hours. Usually, the super-speedy teams finish a sprint in three or four hours, sitting at the finish for hours while the rest of the field completes the course.

Next up, the Philly marathon. That I haven't trained for a lot. A 20-miler is on tap for Saturday followed by about 10 miles on Sunday. The race is soon -- less than a month away. Little speedwork, nothing more than 18 miles as my long run up to this point. Should be a disaster! But hopefully a fun one.

Storm the Eastern Shore, The End

I apologize in advance if this post makes even less sense than usual. After literally years with not even a sneeze, I find myself at home in a benadryl-induced haze trying to fight off something grody that is attempting to take over my person.

After the boys stared at the map for a bit and we shuffled around for about a mile trying to figure out exactly where we were we found our first point. And then the second, third and fourth in about 45 minutes. The points were almost right on top of each other -- two were less than 30 yards apart.

So, instead of just going for the mandatory four points we ended up with seven. Hooray! The sun worked its way up, our headlamps went back in our packs and after less than two hours (I think) we were rolling out of transition on our bikes for a few more points over 20 miles. And also a few more mosquito bites. At one point I was standing still to pay a toll we had to go through on our bikes and I was instantaneously covered in mosquitoes. Delicious.

We rode in a pace line most of the way and were moving along quick enough (for us) as we worked our way to the put-in for the final kayak, about 8 k down the Chesapeake. Didn't sound too bad.

We didn't waste too much time in transition and were off.

And then I got hit in the back of the head with Bill's paddle.

"Oh, sorry! I was just looking at the maps!" he said.

A few yards later I was clunked in the back of the head again. And then again. I turned, careful not to throw the boat out of balance.

Bill was sound asleep but still paddling the air.




Great. After a few failed attempts to keep him awake I realized I would be mostly paddling for two. I was pretty tired myself and made B.J. keep me engaged in conversation to keep me awake.

And then we saw sharks swimming toward us -- three fins popping above the water. Except I soon realized that the fins, fortunately, belonged to dolphins that swam right up to us, curious toward a bunch of smelly people in kayaks in their space.

How amazing -- probably the coolest thing that I've ever experienced during a race (aside from a few awesome hallucinations I had at my first 24-hour). Our new friends woke Bill up a bit and we continued down the bay.

The take-out came into view and we all started to pick up the pace, motivated by the finish line. We beached our boats and started to figure out the best way to rig them in order to complete the half-mile portage to the finish.

And then, a miracle! The dude from the team that stole back their portage wheels rolled up in a car and handed us a set of wheels!

We pushed and pulled our way to the finish (the portage was uphill, of course) and tadaa! All done!

The results still aren't posted but I am guessing we finished toward the middle.

I loved, loved this race. So fun, well-organized, the course took advantage of what the terrain had to offer and amazingly friendly volunteers. The fact that I felt physically strong for most of the race and only had one near-meltdown when I was stuck in  the swamp didn't hurt either.

And now I am bored. I want to get out there again immediately. Well, not immediately, as I am currently still in my pjs after 14 hours of sleep with more meds and tea pumping through me than is allowed by law. But soon.

The Equinox Travirse: How I Convinced Myself To Finish

So yeah, we were in a ski lodge without air conditioning (go figure), I was grumpy and I wanted to quit.

I flopped on the ground, plopped my feet onto a chair and promptly fell asleep for about 30 minutes. I woke up and was laying in a puddle of my own sweat. The floor was covered in this itchy, furry, Brillo carpet and I was disgusted with myself, with my attitude and with the race.

"Can we quit yet?," I asked Bill

He stared at me. "Whatever you think," he said. "Only you know how bad you feel and whether you can go."

He clearly conspired with my mother who used to say the exact same thing when I tried to convince her I needed to stay home because I was sick. I always ended up going to school.

I wanted someone to give me permission to quit. No one did. This made me mad. I continued to lay in my own puddle of sweat.

Another team of two came in.

"What's wrong with her?" the woman on the team asked Bill.

"She's hot," Bill said.

I felt like a terrible wimp.

The woman walked over to me, yanked my headband off my head, unzipped my bike jersey and told me to take off my sun-blocking arm warmer thingies. Bill's interest was piqued.

"Drink something, eat something, go back to sleep for an hour and then get up and go. You are not quitting," she said.

I ate, drank, and went back to sleep for another half hour, awakened by a team of four who was a bit pissed off because they were in second place instead of first, or something like that. Overachievers.

They were talking about food and I realized they were near my stash, discussing my Elios pizza and Combos.

"Do you think this was just left here? Can we eat it? Whose Mountain Dew is this?"

THEY WERE GOING TO EAT MY FOOD.

I shot up and plopped myself at the table with them.

"It's all mine!" I said, scarfing down the food and chugging the Mountain Dew.

They asked me where I came from. I told them I'd been sleeping on the floor. We started talking about all the things we wanted to eat. One guy and I became fixated on McDonald's chicken nuggets. It became all I could think about. The last time I'd eaten meat from a McDonald's was probably 1990. The last time I'd eaten meat, aside from a few beef jerky strips during the Rev3, was after the NYC Marathon when I'd consumed the most awesome cheeseburger of all time.

"So how's your race going?" the woman on the team asked me.

"Oh, we're dropping out. We're waiting for a ride back," I told her.

"So you've been racing for 27 hours and you are dropping? Really?," she asked. "The worst is over."

"Uh, yeah, we're done," my mouth said while my brain screamed "WHY WON'T ANYONE LET ME DROP OUT OF THIS RACE?"

I started to get pissed at my apathy. Then I started to hate it. A lot. I got angry. I wanted to punch the apathy in it's stupid ugly apathetic face.

"Get me out of this lodge," I said to Bill. "Let's go. Let's get the checkpoints that are on route, skip 19 and at least ride to the finish."

Bill and Kevin refilled our water, we dumped into the trash everything that wasn't mandatory and/or that we knew we wouldn't need and hopped on our bikes.

I felt great. My legs felt fresh as we climbed up the steep roads out of the ski resort-- like I hadn't just spent more than a day racing. More importantly I felt mentally strong and I knew we'd ride across the finish line, unofficial or not.

We (and by we, I mean Bill) easily found CPs 16 (down a steep drop in a creek bed along a trail impossible for any of us to ride), 17 and 18. The daylight began to fade as we entered our second night of racing. We had about 15 miles to ride before unofficially rolling across the finish and 11 hours to do it in.

Kevin rode up ahead and Bill and I hung behind.

"How are you feeling?," I asked.
"Fine," he said. "You?"
"Better than I have since about 10 minutes after the start. I think we should get 19."
Bill agreed.

One more point might not sound like much but it was up and over a mountain and based on our maps it looked like it was a small campsite tucked among a cluster of trails and trees -- not so easy to find in the dark.

We told Kevin we were going to go for 19. He said he wasn't going to join us and would just ride to the finish. After spending a day of racing together we were losing our third man.

We chugged back through Confluence and arrived at the point where we had to choose how we'd get to 19 -- up a paved road with lots of switchbacks that would get us to the top but with no clear route to the CP, up the fire road we rode down earlier in the day that was long, completely washed out and, while mostly rideable by day would be difficult by night and would still leave us with a bit of unclear navigation once we got to the top.

The best option seemed to be riding 9 miles down the gravel, flat trail we'd run up after the paddle the day before and then turning off to go up and over Sugarloaf, just as we'd started out about 38 hours before.

Off we went, Kevin leading our little bobo paceline

Thirty minutes later we parted ways with Kevin and Bill and I continued on alone together. Sugarloaf seemed much steeper, much longer and much more rocky than it did the previous day. We rode a bit, pushed a lot and slowly made our way up.

After what seemed like hours but was only 40 minutes we came across a solo racer on his way back. He assured us that we were going in the right direction and that our course selection was dead on.

"You will know you are there when you see the glowsticks. Just follow the glowsticks," he said. He seemed like an apparition but we both decided he was real. Up we went, and went. Finally we found ourselves on a gravel road that quickly dropped down the other side of the mountain. About three miles later we saw something -- A GLOWSTICK!

We plugged along, wove along some maze-like trails that would have been tough to navigate without the glowsticks and were soon dumped into a small, beautiful campsite in the middle of nowhere. It was awesome. New goal in life: Camp there one day.

We punched the point and were back on our way. We rode up the trails and road and all of a sudden I found myself napping on the side of the road.

"Just 10 minutes," I asked.
Bill set his alarm and we both fell asleep for 10 beautiful minutes before continuing on our way.

It was a beautiful, warm night. We were alone. It was quiet except for the sound of the river too far away. The gravel road dumped us back onto sugarloaf and I endoed thanks to the first rock I saw.

"I am walking."

"Ok, just keep moving forward and we will be fine," Bill said as he bounced down the trail.

He got too far ahead and I was by myself in the dark. Yuck. I coudn't hear him or see him. I yelled.
"Chieeefff," (That's what we call each other. Don't mock. It's better than Cupcake or Baby.) "Whhheeere aareeee youuuuu?"

Man oh man you're my best friend, I'll scream it to the nothingness, there ain't nothing that I need. Hot and heavy, pumpkin pie, chocolate cake ... AND CHICKEN NUGGETS. Oh, God, I would have sold my soul right then for one single chicken nugget. I became fixated. All I could think about were those little bundles of compressed, processed, bleached, breaded and fried beaks, tendons and toenails.

I saw Bill up ahead. He was talking to another team. Except I caught up to him and the team wasn't there. "Where did that team go?" "What team?" We continued on, he'd get ahead and I'd hear and see him talking to another team. Except I'd catch up and no team. This happened about three more times until I finally realized my brain was starting to melt and there were, in fact, no other teams. Bill's brain was melting too -- his bike light had burnt out so he had an insanely bright flashlight in his hand instead and I'd catch him shining it into the bushes and trees, staring at all the magical creatures that his mind had created for him.

Adventure racing. Like doing drugs, only legal. But more expensive and with more laundry to do at the finish.

I began to think that Satan herself was at the bottom of Sugarloaf, turning the trail into a treadmill from hell, adding two feet to the trail for every one foot we completed. It felt like we were going on forever. My feet, swollen and wedged into my bike shoes pinched and ached. My pack made my back start to kill. I realized the soles had holes in them. But the rest of me didn't feel too horrible. I felt like I could sleep for a year but my body felt perfectly adequate. No mental freakouts and we would get to the finish.

We plodded along, sometimes riding, mostly on foot. The river got louder telling us we were getting closer to the finish. Finally, finally, we were dumped onto the road and had less than a mile to the finish. We rode hard, although I am not sure why.

And there it was. The finish -- a giant man sleeping on a picnic table under a small banner that said American Adventure Sports. We punched the finish line CP, placed our race passport on the dude's stomach, I threw my bike shoes into the trash and we took dark and cold showers and then slept in the car for three hours.

We woke up and headed back to Bill's for another hour or two of sleeping. Then, time to eat!

McDonald's. Not to proud to admit it. I had a 10-piece chicken nugget extra value meal and a cheeseburger. Then we went to a bar. Three beers made me drunkish. And a pizza. And then KFC for more chicken, a salad, mashed potatoes and mac and cheese. Disgusting, but beautiful.

I woke up on Monday and felt fine physically. Mentally I was thrilled that we finished but also unsatisfied because we both knew we could have done better. We were physically prepared to race and our bodies held up fine but my bad attitude and our navigation mistakes could have, should have, been avoided.

So  I need to do another one. 48-hour races are had to come by though so for now I am narrowing in on a 30-hour September race a bit north of Virginia Beach. Anyone in?

The 1/2 Sauer, 1/2 Kraut 13.1: A Timeline

Sunday, June 26. Bright and early.

5:22 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. Hit snooze. Roll over and briefly think that there's something I have to get up for. Fall back to sleep.

5:29 -- Alarm goes off again. Remember that I have a race, and that I have to get three other people out of the house by 6. Freak out a bit, pull on my running clothes and hop downstairs to K-Cup the first of three pre-race cups of coffee.

5:33 -- Stare at fridge in a sleepy stare while coffee brews.

5:33:30 -- Hear Kate shuffling around upstairs. This is a small miracle because if there's anyone who hates mornings more than I do, it's Kate.

5:34 -- Make Kate a cup of coffee. See?

5:35-- Bill comes downstairs dressed and ready to go. Yay! Steve (Kate's husband) slept in his clothes so things were looking good for a 6 a.m. departure.

5:36 -- Bill decides he smells and takes a shower. Steve goes back to sleep.

5:38 -- Steve is awake! Bill is clean! Kate and I are fed! I have my second cup of coffee!

5:44 -- We all stand around and stare at each other. I have another cup of coffee.

6:07 -- We realize that we've been standing around staring at each other for a while so we decide to leave.

6:37: We get to the race site. We park 8 feet from the start line. With almost an hour to go before the scheduled gun time we stand around and take pictures.

This was Steve's first time seeing Kate run. Clearly, they are both
quite excited for their big day.

We met in preschool and look exactly the same as we did in 1980, I swear.

6:42 -- Realize the boys aren't as excited as we are about the race. See above for proof. At least Bill is faking a smile. Steve just looks like he wants to stab someone.

6:43-7:47 -- Do nothing other than realize that the race will be starting late. Finally the gun goes off (or someone just yells "go" and we all start running) about 17 minutes behind schedule.

7:53:40 -- Try to keep up with the girl in front of me. Hit the first mile marker at 6:40, a pace that I would be content to hold on a track. Knowing that I will crash, burn and then blaze bright enough to be seen from outer space if I try to stay with her I slow down quite a bit. She zooms away. But I am feeling nice.

7:53:31-- 8:28 -- I run. The course goes up and down a bit. I hate the ups more than I should.

8:29 -- The course zigs and zags through a small parking lot and field about 7 trillion times. I realize that there's a woman right behind me that is sort of flying and I know that she will pass me soon. Along one of the zigs I hear Kate cheering me on. I am starting to feel a bit gross so I shout a supportive "Grerrmpfhfaaaakk" in reply. I think about what a good friend I am. I am awesome.

8:35 -- The course had been along a paved bike path but now meanders onto actual trials. I love trails and I pick up the pace a bit. I pass a few dudes.

8:45 -- I am dumped back onto the paved path and am passed by the woman behind me within 800 meters. I don't care as much as I probably should. Mostly because I am happily surprised with my pace. I'd been aiming for about a 1:40 and realize I should be able to come in a bit under that if I don't shit the bed.

9:08 -- I hit the 11-mile aid station. "Only two miles left!" they tell me. I realize I am getting bitchy. "It's really two-point-one," I correct. "And that seems really far right now."

9:20 -- I haven't seen another runner in a while and the course is starting to feel long. Or I am just starting to feel tired. I contemplate slowing to a jog, then slowing to a walk. I peek over my shoulder every few strides. I see no ladies, no dudes. Am I off course? I don't want to be passed at the line just because I get lazy. I try to pick up the pace.

9:23 -- I see a friendly looking dude with a medal around his neck, sipping on a bottle of water with his feet in the creek, cheering me on. "Shit, dude, am I almost there?," I ask. "You are, I swear," the dude says and slaps me five. I decide to believe him. Because it is either that or I just flop in the creek and call it a year.

9:24 -- The finish. Tadaa. I stagger a tiny bit and then, instead of removing my chip, remove my entire shoe and hand it to the volunteer collecting chips. I snag a banana and some water and then realize I have one less shoe than I should. I find my smelly shoe which is nice.

Bill missed me crossing the finish line but got me
taking off my shoe.

9:31 -- Kate finishes in just under 1:45. (1:44:44 I think). I am impressed. Here's why -- Kate has several PhDs, got a 2400 on her SATs back in the day where the highest possible score was a 1600 and was published before she was old enough to drink. The only B (actually, she just emailed me to remind me it was actually a B+) she ever got in her life was in fourth grade gym. She thought her academic career was over. But she really sucked at kickball, a lot. Kate apparently got winded in high school marching band and also runs with an inhaler. The first time she ever ran more than a mile at a time was about a year ago and then she busts out a 1:45 in her second half marathon. Silly overachiever.

9:45 -- Results are posted. I am 33rd overall, 3rd for the ladies and 1st in my age group. Kate is 7th for the ladies and second in our age group. Hoorah. But before you go around thinking I am fast please be aware that this was a small local race. And that the Philly Olympic-distance tri was at the same time so that's where all the fasties were.

11:10 -- We go to the weird German club (what's with Philly-area races and their affiliation with German clubs) for free beers and/or bratwurst (racers got either two free beers, two free bratwurst or one of each, how fun).

11:22 -- Best race awards of all time. I got another one of these at the last race I did put on by the same company. So now I have two Bavarian thermometers/barometers.  How fantastic.

This guy rocked out hard on his accordion(s). Just like
every other race out there.

THE END

Me v. Red Shirt, Part II

Where was I? Somewhere in the woods around mile 10, I guess.

I ran and ran, and smiled and smiled. Suddenly, a crowd! The aid station at mile 12.4 was just ahead and it was packed. I heard someone yelling my name from far away. Genny! I told her I'd probably wear a grey shirt and orange shorts and she managed to spot me from about 100 yards away. I was impressed.

Maybe I should have used more energy to run and less to smile.

She had Gatorade! And, even more importantly, she had Skittles. Lots and lots of Skittles. I stuffed several dozen of them into my cheeks. So amazingly delicious! The rainbow of fruit flavors never tasted so good. Maybe Skittles will sponsor me.


I was like this hamster, only slightly taller and with less fur. And with Skittles instead of Cheerios.

And then, just ahead, stuffing his face almost as quickly as I was, was Red Shirt! I grabbed some peanut M&Ms and sprinted (ok, shuffled) off, figuring I'd put him behind me for good. He continued to scarf down snacks as I ran past.

The route took us to a slow, wide, gravel climb. We'd merged with the 50 milers by this point so I actually had people to attempt to pass and to run away from. After a steep descent we squeezed onto the narrowest of trails with a rock wall on one side and a drop into water on the other. This part was an out-and-back so we all channeled our inner mountain goats as we tiptoed through carefully in attempt to keep our own footing without smooshing runners on their way back off the trail. Most people were kind and there was more "excuse me please, thank you, you go ahead, have fun, top of the morning to you, don't fall, good job, hooray for you" than pushing and shoving. Nice!

A few meters later I found myself at the 15.1-mile aid station. I couldn't believe I was half-way done, right where the Mom and Dad were supposed to be. Uh oh. I checked my watch and realized that I was about 50 minutes ahead of schedule. I told them I'd be there at about the 3 1/2 hour mark and I was only about 2 hours and 40 minutes in. Hmm. Do I wait? What if I never see them again? What if they get here and think the course has eaten me alive and start to worry?

Then Red Shirt pulled into the aid station right next to me, gulped down some water and sprinted back the way we came. I hesitated for a moment and then took off after him.

This part of the course was my favorite. We worked our way almost all of the way back to the aid station where Genny was before veering off up a long, technical climb. The race directors apparently imported every rock in the East Coast to this part of the course. It was more of a scramble than a run and I chose my footing carefully as the route rose well above the river.

The view at the top probably was spectacular but I didn't get a chance to look around. People were everywhere. The entire population of the D.C. metro area apparently decided to spend the gorgeous Saturday morning at the top of this trail and I used up a bit of patience waiting for hikers, their cigarettes and their miniature pot-bellied pigs (ok, I only saw one pot-bellied pig, but isn't that one too many?) to move to the side to let runners through.

I worked my way up and over the climb and found myself back at the 12.4 mile mark that had magically morphed into the 19-mile mark. There was Genny! Holding more Skittles! Really, she's sort of the best. She told me that my parents had just left that spot, confused as to where I was and where they were supposed to find me. I chowed down on more glorious Skittles and some Pringles while she called my parents who were, fortunately, still in the parking lot. They hopped out of their car and ran over to the trail.

"You just ran 19 miles!" my Dad said.
"You sort of smell," said my Mom. "But you look happy! And you aren't bleeding like a lot of the other people going by, so you have that going for you. And you are going faster than you thought you would!"

I waved and told them I'd see them at the finish. It was right around the corner after all, wasn't it? Only 12 miles to go. Easy.

Except not so much. I realized that I essentially had a half-marathon to go and that suddenly seemed very, very far. And Red Shirt was so far ahead. And sweat was stinging my eyes. And the next aid station was 7 miles away. And I no longer had the fun part of Dog Days Are Over stuck in my head. Instead, on repeat, I had the part where she slowly wails like this: IIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiyeyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee nnnnayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ooweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee yoweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Terrible.

And I still had 11 miles to go. My hands started tingling. I looked at my fingers, swollen, red, shiny and disgusting. I flapped them around a bit like that was going to get the fluid out. I realized I looked ridiculous and started to giggle.

"My fingers look like Snausages," I thought, and started to laugh. Hard. So hard that tears came out. I couldn't see where I was going. "Oh my God, what if my fingers actually turn into Snausages?" I was clearly a bit dehydrated, my electrolytes were a bit off -- marathon brain was starting to kick in.

Somewhere in a part of my brain that should have remained covered in cobwebs there was this:


Snausages replaced Florence and The Machines in my head. Dear God. What's wrong with me? Snausages? I've never even had a dog.

I continued on and started to feel a bit better, fortunately. That was the only time I felt low during the entire race. About five people passed me, including two women. Marathoners started to pass me on their way out on the course. Fifty-milers started to pass me as they drove toward the finish, holding a pace that I'd be happy to keep on an on-road 13.1. But I felt fine and decided to pay attention to myself instead of the people passing me. And slowly I began to reel in people ahead of me. Not a ton of people but I passed more than passed me over the last 10k.

I walked a few steep climbs, ran the descents and the flats. I stared at my feet, glancing up only occasionally. And then, A SNAKE! A DAMN SNAKE. Not a big one -- maybe two feet long, skinny and green. "I don't want to ever see any more snakes ever again!," I yelled out loud to no one. Apparently snakes don't read my blog and therefore don't know that I hate them.

The trail zigged and zagged and I finally found myself at the aid station at mile 25.5. I ate and drank as much as I could as quickly as I could and was on my way, passing a few people in the process. I was mostly staring at my feet, making sure that I didn't trip over anything or, more importantly, step on a snake.

I'd glance up every so often to make sure I wasn't about to slam into a tree -- something red off in the distance. Red Shirt! There he was, about 100 yards ahead. And he was going nowhere. In fact, he was barfing into a bush while hopping around grabbing his calf with a cramp.

Hmm. What to do? Ok, I really gave it no thought whatsoever. "Man, that sucks!," I said. "The aid station is only about a quarter-mile behind, you should probably go back."

The place for me in hell gets more and more special every day. I ran on, glancing over my shoulder a few times to make sure Red Shirt wasn't sneaking up again. I could see him off in the distance but he never caught up.

Wahoo! Me: 1, Red Shirt: 0.

Skipped the last aid station with 2.5 miles left to go. For a second that seemed like an obscene amount of distance to cover. I slowed to a walk for a few steps and then realized I would rather run.

I checked my watch. Five hours 15 minutes with a bit more than two miles to go. I couldn't believe it. I'd been nervous about not meeting my goal of 7: 12. And I'd loved every step. I never hit the wall. I started to, but, thanks to Snausages, I manged to bust through it. I thought about how, in road marathons, miles 22 until 26 have always been basically unfun. 50ks, where have you been all my life?

My feet hit the flat paved trail leading to the finish line. A volunteer told me I had less than 400 meters to go. Really? I picked up the pace, smiling. A lot. I broke through a small cluster of trees and the crowd was yelling. My parents and Genny should really be Laker Girls or something -- they are pros at cheering.


Genny took a picture of my Mom taking my picture. Except
Mom managed to miss me, somehow, and took a picture
of the grass instead.





Notice Genny is actually near me and my Mom
is several feet away. Apparently I stunk. 

What's more awesome, my hairdo or my crooked race number?



I was going to crop out a lot of the grass and zoom
in on myself but then I realized my eyes are closed
and that my hat is weirdly balanced on the top of my head.

I ran across the line and looked around, grinning like a dork. 5:35:53, good enough for 12th female out of 105 and 63rd out of 332 overall. Fine by me.

I tend to exaggerate, a lot. But, sincerely, I think this might have been my favorite race ever. Possibly better than Boston, better than New York, as rewarding as 24-hour adventure races. The fact that it was well-organized and that the course was gorgeous didn't hurt either. Good race shirt, arm warmers ... the stuff given out cost as much as the entry fee. Well-stocked aid stations, a course so well-marked that even I didn't get lost. A very good introduction to the 50k distance, to say the least.

THE END

 

The Rev3 = Mud, Rain and Necessary Nudity, Part II

As we headed out on foot the sun was shining, my feet were dry and I was warm.

For about five seconds. We soon ducked under a guardrail and crossed a new stream, born out of the storms. Everyone else leaped across. I tried, missed and found myself shin-deep in the dirty rushing water.

Well, shit. I guess changing my socks turned out to be the most pointless thing I did all day.

Fortunately the CP was sitting there right where those on the team who know how a map works (i.e. not me) expected it to be and we were off. The next point, however, did a good job hiding from us. Everyone but me (again, I am basically useless with direction) stared at the map and strategized as to where the CP might be. Apparently the map was from the dawn of time and thus didn’t include the roads, cabins, campgrounds, houses and giant cell phone towers that would have otherwise served as helpful landmarks.

Instead we were relegated to using actual land features – CP clues told us to look for saddles, spurs and reentrants.

We spent a particularly frustrating 45 minutes of seemingly aimless wandering without snagging a pesky point described as a “reentrant on the back of a power line.” After about 44 of these minutes I realized I had no idea what we were looking for.

“What the fuck is a reentrant?” I asked. (Sorry, Mom. I said “fuck.”)
“You mean you’ve been looking for this thing without knowing what we were actually looking for?” Brad Jason asked.
“Uh, yeah. I was really just looking for the orange and white flag.”

And then, magic.

“I know where it is!” a suddenly inspired Bill yelled. He took off down the power line, ducked into the woods and there it was. Didn’t seem so difficult after all.

After the Great Reentrant Debacle of 2011 we chugged along punching points at a steady pace. We soon yanked on our headlamps and I found myself playing in the woods in the dark. Fun! The boys would get us to the feature and then Val, who apparently eats carrots by the ton and is part owl, would pick the point out of the dark.

I contributed to the team effort by eating M&Ms and walking in circles.

After a bit we found ourselves at a gate and a wire fence. All of four feet tall, the gate made an easy obstacle. Except I decided that going under the wire fence would be easier. Under I went. And got stuck. My teammates helped pluck me out of the mess but I became the most muddy member of our team in the process. After a slog through a few inches of water and other junk we easily grabbed the point.

“God, I must be getting really tired,” I said. “I am hallucinating that we are walking through giant piles of wet cow shit.”
“Yeah, we ARE walking through giant piles of wet cow shit,” chorused my team.

Eew.

A few steps later I realized that, thanks to going under the wire, my right arm had been christened with poop. Although the rest of me was nearly as gross it became imperative that I wipe the poop off as soon as humanly possible on the thing closest to me. The only thing close at that point would have been Val, and I am not that mean, so I scraped it off on a trail sign farther down the path. Vandalism at its finest.

We continued on foot and were around about a dozen other teams for an hour or two. I figured that we were well toward the back of the pack as we finally strolled back into transition at about 1 in the morning.

I was surprised when the boys handed in our passport and said that the race officials said that we’d gotten a lot of optional CPs compared to many of the other teams. I decided that they were just being nice and that we were in fact in DFL.

There was an optional team challenge that we decided to tackle next. We had to get three barrels, two 1 x 6 planks and all of us across a 50-foot plot of land without any of us, or either of the planks, touching the ground. For 20 minutes I found myself wedged between B.J. and Val with Bill bringing up the rear. We are now prepared to represent the U.S. in bobsled in the 2014 Olympics. Smooshed together, we scooted, moved barrels, passed along the planks and successfully made it across.

Only 13 miles of muddy, semi-technical biking stood between us and the finish line at that point. Although at the time 13 miles seemed like 130. As we started off a few teams were heading in from the foot section. Many looked like they were about to fall over and pull a Rip Van Winkle, pulling each other along, staggering, using sticks as crutches. I know it was mean of me, but I was motivated by their struggles. “I know I don’t look as bad as they do, because they look amazingly terrible.” When the bike got tough this became my inspiration.

There’s a special place in hell for me, I know.

My brain was getting extra mushy, so here’s what I remember about the bike: Wet trail, dry road. Wet trail. Wet muddy trail. Wet muddy hilly trail with lots of rocks. Get off bike. Push bike up hill. Get back on. Slide around. Get back off. Ride down hill. Lose ability to brake thanks to the mud and the wet. Get back on bike. Pedal. Push. Stop. Stare at lost helmetless team wearing Dockers torn off at the knees and torn up to their crotch. Wonder where their helmets went. Wonder why they thought biking in tightywhities was a good plan. Pedal. Get off again. Barf. Stand still. Contemplate the fact I just barfed. Think about the fact that I’ve never barfed in a race before. Try to eat something. Dry heave. See Bill’s tail light fading ahead of me. Don’t want to be left all alone so get back on and keep going.

My teammates were kind as I moseyed along, knowing that I could keep going, just that I couldn’t keep going hard. The three of them all took turns hanging back with me, which was not only nice but probably also prevented me from having a screaming temper tantrum, so we all won out in the end.

And then, darkness. My bike light decided to shine no more, leaving me with just my headlamp to light the trail. Amazingly unfun. Bill told me we were almost done but I decided he was lying. Val stayed behind me so I could benefit from her light a bit and B.J. would ride ahead, turning his bike around to light the way for me as best as he could.

Turns out Bill isn’t so much of a liar after all. We spit out onto a sloppy, flat trail and could see the finish line off in the distance.

Sweet! We pedaled on, a bit faster now, and crossed the line with the usual adventure race lack of finish line fanfare.

Eighth place overall out of 42 teams, seventh place in our division of about 22 teams. Considering my goal was to finish and then not be dead last, I am sort of thrilled.

But I still don't know what a reentrant is.

Want to see before and after pictures?
BEFORE: We are holding Christmas ornaments that were oddly for sale at the race check-in at an outdoor store.
AFTER: We are dirty. And maybe I could have seen better on the bike had my headlamp not been actually covering my eyeballs.
But wait, there's more. B.J. is the only one who looks remotely badass. Val looks like she is auditioning to be the latest member of KrissKross, I am apparently incapable of making a serious face and Bill is thinking "This is what I am married to for the rest of my life?"

Non-FAQs Race Report

Q. What race did you do?
A: The Shamrock St. Patrick’s Day Duathlon and 5k in Hampstead, Maryland.

Q: Yeah, so that narrows it down to two races. What race did you do?
A: The Shamrock St. Patrick’s Day Duathlon in Hampstead, Maryland.

Q: What were the distances?
A: Until the night before the race I thought that the distances were a 2.5-mile run, a 10-mile bike and a 2.5-mile run. I also thought that the course would be relatively flat. I thought I’d be done in an hour ten, an hour fifteen if my run legs didn’t show up for the second run. And then my cousin, who we stayed with for the weekend, informed me that it was in fact a 15-mile, hilly bike. Bill informed me it had categorized climbs. Fantastic, considering I’ve ridden my road bike once outside since October and three times on the trainer ever.

Q: What words came out of your mouth when you learned about the mileage and climbs?
A: Aw, shucks. Whoopsie-daisy. Gee whiz, dawg.

Q: Are you happy about daylight savings time?
A: Generally, yes. Except not when it’s the night before a race that starts at 7:30 a.m. In that case I’d rather it get dark out at 3 p.m. every day for the rest of the year.

Q: What were you thinking?
A: I wanted to run a 7:00 pace for the five miles of running and, once I realized that the bike was actually 15 hilly miles, finish the ride in less than an hour for a total of 1:35:00. Initially I expected Bill and I to be the only ones at the race – a battle of two. Then we thought about it and realized that the field would likely not be crazy small and would, in fact, likely be competitive. Maryland seems to have a fairly active tri scene, and after another cold, snowy winter there were likely to be a ton of competitive triathletes eager for the first race of the season after months stuck on trainers, treadmills and indoor pools.

Q: What did you see when you arrived in transition?
A: Expensive wheels. Lots of expensive wheels. The bike next to me cost more than my last car. The wheelset was more than two months of our mortgage. And it wasn’t even the nicest bike on the racks. People eyed each other up and seemed to be taking the race more seriously than I’ve taken any of mine. Except the lady wearing a green feather boa on top of her race kit. She was sort of awesome.

Q: So are you ever going to discuss the actual race?
A: Ok.
The race director had us gather ‘round, told us nothing too useful, blew a whistle and we were off for a lap around a hilly parking lot before running up a hill through a neighborhood, around a cone and back to transition. I ran hard but not as hard as I could, reminding myself that the bike was probably going to make me grumpy.
Bill had a more eventful run than I did – a 5k started simultaneously and that course went past the duathlon course and the first 10 runners apparently forgot to turn around. I saw Bill run past the turnaround but he was too far ahead of me already for me to do anything about it. They figured it out at some point as Bill flew past me about 5 minutes later, simultaneously cussing and zooming. I caught up to him in transition but he sped out before I even had my shoes on.

A brief downhill started the bike, followed by a false flat and then hills. And also hills. And then hills. Followed by hills. And farms. I sucked amazingly at the uphills. Got passed by at least one person on just about every major climb. I felt like I was going as hard as I could most of the time, too. I held my own on the downhills though and was sort of excited to peek at my maximum speed on one of the climbs and see 42 miles per hour. That’s fast for me. Not necessarily safe for me though.

The only people I passed on the bike were two guys who didn’t manage to dodge the approximately 8 trillion potholes sprayed over miles 7 until about 10 of the course. I felt bad but they both seemed ok and I couldn’t quite handle the thought of more people passing me so I didn’t stop. There were also major portions of the ride when I forgot I was racing – no one in front of me, no one behind me and pretty things to look at. I started playing sightseer instead of playing racer. The course was beautiful. Then I’d hear the whoosh of a disk wheel creeping up behind me and I’d remember that I was in a race and that I hadn’t spent enough time on my road bike to really compete.

Once I managed to make it back to transition I realized that there were two women on their way out as I dumped my bike and yanked on my shoes. I made it my goal to catch at least one of them. They were running side by side about 100 yards in front of me and then one started to drop back a bit. My legs decided to cooperate, fortunately, and I very slowly started reeling her in. Bill was on his way back at that point and pretty much demanded that I catch her as we passed each other. Sounded good to me so just before the turnaround I went. Then I worked on closing the gap to the next woman. I was getting closer and closer but ran out of room – by the time she finished I was about 15 yards behind. At least having someone to chase the last half of the run kept me motivated.

I crossed the line in 1:32:XX, I think. I’d forgotten my watch, only glimpsed at the clock as I finished and the results aren’t posted yet. I was satisfied with my time but not thrilled with the way I placed. I was hoping to be in the top five but I think I might have managed to be in the top 10, which might not sound so bad … except there were only about 25 women in the race. I was satisfied with my run but not with how I stacked up in the bike.

And I soon went into a state of mild panic about the 60-mile ride along Skyline Drive in the Rev3. On mountain bikes. With backpacks. In an attempt to make me feel better/pee in my pants/drop out/hate geography one of my teammates sent me this:

An elevation graph or an EKG of someone who needs
a cardiologist as soon as possible? You decide.

Q: What rocked?
A: My cousin and her two freakin adorable little kids were at the finish line. They are 2 and 1, and were bundled, wrapped, covered and all tucked in their stroller. The kids looked confused.
“Mama, why did you get us up so early, dress us like our next stop is the Iditarod and make us sit in the stroller to watch people run around,” their cute little faces seemed to ask.

Q: Are there pictures?
A: Here. I stole these off of my cousin’s Facebook page. If we are Facebook BFFs there are pictures of a post-race nasty me with the adorable wee ones. I am not posting them here because it is freakin’ weird to post pictures of other people’s kids on your blog without asking.


Good thing the cones and ropes are there to keep back the large rabid crowd and
a truck with a tarp on it.

This picture makes me laugh. I am pretty sure that is me. Also Blogger
won't let me post these pictures in chronological order. That is all.

5ks Aren't as Scary as I Remember

Philadelphia’s recent freezing, snowy winters have apparently made me a bit hard. When today’s forecast called for a high of 40 degrees I immediately decided that capri tights, a tank top and arm warmers would be perfect attire for today’s Cupid’s Chase 5k. Fortunately, I decided to bike to the start line as it was only a handful of miles from my house and mostly downhill so I had a few extra layers on. The race was actually freezing and I wore just about everything I brought (minus the thermal tights, bike shoes and helmet, although wearing all that could have been awesome).

Note to Laurie: The possibility of a 40-degree high does not mean that there won’t be wind, that the temp will reach that along the river that runs along the race course, or that the high will be reached at 9 a.m. It also does not mean that 40 degrees is warm.

Bill decided to sit this one out and served not only as cheerleader, but as the mule for my scrapped stuff while I ran. Best early Valentine’s Day gift ever!

I was sort of nervous -- I hadn’t run a 5k in forever, since the summer of 2009 (I think). There’s a reason for the 18-month lapse and for why the memories I have of the distance have faded – they aren’t remotely pretty. Lungs and legs on fire every step of the way, dry-heaving at the finish line and then coughing up lung junk for hours afterward don’t exactly make me want to run one every weekend.

It was quite unwarm as we waited around for the race to start (this was its first year, and there were a huge number of walk-up registrations that they hadn’t expected). I couldn’t feel my feet that well and my eyes watered from the cold wind.

Finally it was time to go. After almost running down a racer in a giant fanny pack pushing her uneager 5-year-old son in front of her (sorry!) a few feet after the start line, the field spread out quickly. I was surprised, because there were about 600 runners crammed onto an out-and-back along a 12-foot wide paved, flat trail. I found myself running alone after the first half-mile. Took a quick glimpse behind me and didn’t see anyone too close to race, and the closest runner in front of me was too far to simply chase. I felt like I was in a race of one.

My brief warm-up had been fairly terrible. Everything felt slow and heavy, so I was surprised to see the first mile tick by at a solid pace for me. A few minutes later the leaders passed on their way back and I surprised myself by coming to the turnaround without feeling like a hot mess.

And then, a collision. I stare at my feet when I run unless I am on technical trails. A bad habit and terrible form, I know, but it’s what I do. As I was on my way back, there were occasional packs of people running on their way out, four or five across. I didn’t see him coming directly for me, he didn’t see me either and I managed to bounce off of a 78-foot tall, inexplicably sweaty, dude (sorry to you too, sir). I stayed on my feet and decided to look up to avoid future head-ons. That’s when I realized that I was starting to catch up to a small pack of runners about 10 yards in front of me and I was slowly able to reel all but one of them in (Vibram 5 Fingers Man, I salute you and your ability to take off like a gazelle when you realized you were about to be passed) and I managed to pass a couple more people before nearing the finish line.

In college I rowed for a few years  and when we were bad or slow, our “punishment” was to run basically the exact race route. I always ran with my pair and we’d always fall into a dead sprint about 300 meters from the end. That was 12 years ago but it sounded like a good plan to me today, so off I went at the exact street sign that used to trigger our sprint.

I crossed the finish line and realized I probably could have gone a bit faster. No real dry heaving (although I’d like to borrow someone else’s lungs for the rest of the weekend), no feeling like complete death. Not necessarily a good thing. I was happy enough with my time though, especially since my main focus in training right now is slow but steady adventure racing, not anything remotely fast. I think it was my third or fourth or maybe fifth or 67th fastest 5k (I am bad of keeping track of my times except for a few PRs that I hold near and dear) but I know it wasn’t a PR (I’d love to know my 5k PR… I have a rough idea and know what race it was, but can’t find the results).

My co-worker Meredith ran today too. She is starting to get sucked into racing, slowly but surely and was hoping to beat her previous 5k time. I am glad I was paying attention to the people finishing as opposed to the clock because she scooted across the finish line about two minutes ahead of schedule. A two-minute PR in a 5k = impressive to me.

Here’s a picture to commemorate Meredith’s big day:

No medals (but we did get coconut water, that stuff is delicious!) but I happily added the race shirt to my many layers for the bike ride home. That hurt more than the run, actually. I’d taken the pack of stuff from Bill (I swear it weighed 789 pounds) and got to ride into a headwind most of the way. I happily tumbled inside the house and haven’t moved off the couch since, except for a brief nap I took on the dining room floor.

Windburnt! Home! Thank God for heat!

I had fun today – much more fun than I thought I would. Now I am peeking around for a 5k to do in the next few weeks. Not to train for specifically, but there’s something nice in a 5k about knowing that the finish line is never too far away.