Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wordless Wednesday: Ava Bean
Need a fool proof method to get out of bed and run every morning? Get one of these.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Final Approach
Ladies and Gentleman, as we prepare for our final approach into Boston's Logan Airport, please ensure that your tray tables and seat backs are in their upright and locked position. The flight attendants will be coming through the cabin to collect any unwanted items.
The descent into Logan is one of the most harrowing on the East Coast. During the preliminary descent, you drop to an altitude at which you can only see ocean. When you begin the final bank left, it appears as though you are going to land in the Atlantic. It's only at the last minute that you see the runway and exhale. My approach to Boston has been similar. For the past few weeks, I've been convinced that I'm going to land in the ocean, but I think I can see the runway now.
This training cycle has been turbulent, from a serious winter that has yet to relinquish its grasp to a schedule that even I have to admit is a little over-loaded. Much like the days after a harrowing flight, I am vowing not to repeat a training cycle like this.
My last 20 is done. I will do another 16 on Sunday, a couple more moderate distance runs and one or two faster paced workouts. My job now is to rest, recover and prepare for April 18th. I hate taper. I am a miserable person when I'm not running, so to those who see me regularly, please accept my advance apologies. (WM, it's my two weeks to be snarky.)
Anyone have an air-sickness bag?
~S
The descent into Logan is one of the most harrowing on the East Coast. During the preliminary descent, you drop to an altitude at which you can only see ocean. When you begin the final bank left, it appears as though you are going to land in the Atlantic. It's only at the last minute that you see the runway and exhale. My approach to Boston has been similar. For the past few weeks, I've been convinced that I'm going to land in the ocean, but I think I can see the runway now.
This training cycle has been turbulent, from a serious winter that has yet to relinquish its grasp to a schedule that even I have to admit is a little over-loaded. Much like the days after a harrowing flight, I am vowing not to repeat a training cycle like this.
My last 20 is done. I will do another 16 on Sunday, a couple more moderate distance runs and one or two faster paced workouts. My job now is to rest, recover and prepare for April 18th. I hate taper. I am a miserable person when I'm not running, so to those who see me regularly, please accept my advance apologies. (WM, it's my two weeks to be snarky.)
Anyone have an air-sickness bag?
~S
Friday, March 25, 2011
New Bedford Half Marathon Race Report
I arrived at the starting line of New Bedford with few expectations. After a rough winter on bad surfaces and numbness returning to my calf and foot, the only thing I knew was that I would finish and that at the least, I was working towards my resolution to race more. My goal was to run even splits, start at a pace I could finish at and dig deep.
This was the first race in a long time where I didn't find myself nauseated on the start line. Normally, I'm almost paralyzed with nerves. I don't know if it was the lack of a particular goal, the safety of not being fully tapered or the fact that I hadn't had to deal with race day details beyond getting to the start line, but I was calm and collected. Besides a minor altercation with a runner way in front of where she should have started and her lack of appreciation for my elbow in her back, the start was smooth. I let everyone else barrel out and just ran a relaxed opening mile in 6:46 with Matt. We chatted through 3, clicking off a 6:52 and 6:45 for Miles 2 and 3. Matt was aiming for a 1:25, so we split around 3. I felt good, although my calf had the all too familiar full feeling.
After topping the hill at 4, it was a downhill cruise for a few miles and I just focused on smooth, strong strides. Paces were 6:53, 6:28, 6:33, 6:21and 6:31 for Miles 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 respectively. I had a minor meltdown at 9, an incident perhaps predicted by Norm, who warned me to stay focused during the mile. My quads were shot from the downhill section and my stomach was upset from the Gu I'd taken during 8. I decided that the finish was as close as anything and got over it, turning in a 6:43 for 9. From there, I alternated between celebrating the finish and dreading the hill at 12.
A surprise wind around 11 was unpleasant, chilling the cup of water I inadvertently dumped on my singlet. Miles 10, 11 and 12 were 6:38, 6:39 and 6:39, which took considerable effort despite what those splits suggest. Then came the hill. Although we had run it during the warm up, and although I tend to be strong on hills, I was no happy camper while trucking up the hill. There were a few women around who were in the open class that I needed to pass, but my normal ponytail drive was focused almost entirely on just surviving the hill without stepping in a pothole. Mile 13 was a 6:52. Despite wanting to drop it for the finish, I settled for forward motion and turned in the last .2 (guess I wasn't running tangents...) in a 6:00 pace. My gun time was 1:28, chip time of 1:27:51.
After 30 seconds of feeling like shit (and looking like it, apparently, as the race volunteer wouldn't let me go), my all systems check suggested that things were fine, and I headed to the fence to cheer and cool-down. My post-race routine was not optimal; the food included clam chowder or fish sandwiches, neither of which I eat out of fear of accidentally consuming seafood. Instead, I ate pretzels and drank beer. A lot of beer. I paid for it Monday through Thursday, when stairs were not my friend. Just clicked off an 18, though, so I don't think the beer permanently harmed me.
All in all, it was a good confidence builder. I went out slowly, ran a smart strategic race and didn't have much left, as the picture below demonstrates. Don't mess with me in a dark alley...
This was the first race in a long time where I didn't find myself nauseated on the start line. Normally, I'm almost paralyzed with nerves. I don't know if it was the lack of a particular goal, the safety of not being fully tapered or the fact that I hadn't had to deal with race day details beyond getting to the start line, but I was calm and collected. Besides a minor altercation with a runner way in front of where she should have started and her lack of appreciation for my elbow in her back, the start was smooth. I let everyone else barrel out and just ran a relaxed opening mile in 6:46 with Matt. We chatted through 3, clicking off a 6:52 and 6:45 for Miles 2 and 3. Matt was aiming for a 1:25, so we split around 3. I felt good, although my calf had the all too familiar full feeling.
After topping the hill at 4, it was a downhill cruise for a few miles and I just focused on smooth, strong strides. Paces were 6:53, 6:28, 6:33, 6:21and 6:31 for Miles 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 respectively. I had a minor meltdown at 9, an incident perhaps predicted by Norm, who warned me to stay focused during the mile. My quads were shot from the downhill section and my stomach was upset from the Gu I'd taken during 8. I decided that the finish was as close as anything and got over it, turning in a 6:43 for 9. From there, I alternated between celebrating the finish and dreading the hill at 12.
A surprise wind around 11 was unpleasant, chilling the cup of water I inadvertently dumped on my singlet. Miles 10, 11 and 12 were 6:38, 6:39 and 6:39, which took considerable effort despite what those splits suggest. Then came the hill. Although we had run it during the warm up, and although I tend to be strong on hills, I was no happy camper while trucking up the hill. There were a few women around who were in the open class that I needed to pass, but my normal ponytail drive was focused almost entirely on just surviving the hill without stepping in a pothole. Mile 13 was a 6:52. Despite wanting to drop it for the finish, I settled for forward motion and turned in the last .2 (guess I wasn't running tangents...) in a 6:00 pace. My gun time was 1:28, chip time of 1:27:51.
After 30 seconds of feeling like shit (and looking like it, apparently, as the race volunteer wouldn't let me go), my all systems check suggested that things were fine, and I headed to the fence to cheer and cool-down. My post-race routine was not optimal; the food included clam chowder or fish sandwiches, neither of which I eat out of fear of accidentally consuming seafood. Instead, I ate pretzels and drank beer. A lot of beer. I paid for it Monday through Thursday, when stairs were not my friend. Just clicked off an 18, though, so I don't think the beer permanently harmed me.
All in all, it was a good confidence builder. I went out slowly, ran a smart strategic race and didn't have much left, as the picture below demonstrates. Don't mess with me in a dark alley...
 |
| Courtesy of Justin Ryea |
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Through the Mists of 200 Years
On Saturday morning, I had a conversation with my dad that went beyond our usual Prairie Home Companion repertoire of "Yup." "Okay." "Glad you're well." As it often goes with Dad, I learned about some significant memory from his childhood that he'd never revealed before. In this particular call, he told me that he had memories from New Bedford, of sending his dad to sea and of a whaling museum he hoped to visit again. My grandfather was a Merchant Marine who was pretty absent when my dad was young, coming home just long enough to get my grandmother pregnant again and ship out.
As I ran through the course today, I tried to stay focused. I heard Norm, telling me to be focused at mile 9, to drop it at 12. I heard echos of my high school coach on the hill. More than usual, however, I heard my Dad, drawing me forward at 9 when I had a meltdown, felt his quiet support as I PRd. Like many daughters, the approval of my dad is a special thing. I will never forget his disappointment when I dropped out of a race in junior high. Some 15 years ago, and I still remember the message from our walk the next day: "You never, never give up, never quit, no matter how much it hurts." I will never forget when he watched me win my first race as an adult, with his fist pump to the air and explanation to the person next to him that that was HIS daughter.
My dad would be proud of my race today. I ran smart, I ran hard. I'm proud of my race today. I stayed (mostly) focused. I ran even splits. I may limp through my recovery run tomorrow (and I will write a full race report tomorrow or Tuesday), but I head into the last two weeks before taper with significantly more confidence than before.
As I ran through the course today, I tried to stay focused. I heard Norm, telling me to be focused at mile 9, to drop it at 12. I heard echos of my high school coach on the hill. More than usual, however, I heard my Dad, drawing me forward at 9 when I had a meltdown, felt his quiet support as I PRd. Like many daughters, the approval of my dad is a special thing. I will never forget his disappointment when I dropped out of a race in junior high. Some 15 years ago, and I still remember the message from our walk the next day: "You never, never give up, never quit, no matter how much it hurts." I will never forget when he watched me win my first race as an adult, with his fist pump to the air and explanation to the person next to him that that was HIS daughter.
My dad would be proud of my race today. I ran smart, I ran hard. I'm proud of my race today. I stayed (mostly) focused. I ran even splits. I may limp through my recovery run tomorrow (and I will write a full race report tomorrow or Tuesday), but I head into the last two weeks before taper with significantly more confidence than before.
From I am the American Sailor
I am the spirit of heroes past and future. I am the American Sailor. I was born upon the icy shores at Plymouth, rocked upon the waves of the Atlantic, and nursed in the wilderness of Virginia. I cut my teeth on New England codfish, and I was clothed in southern cotton. I built muscle at the halyards of New Bedford whalers, and I gained my sea legs high atop the mizzens of Yankee clipper ships.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Confession
Running movies and clips make me cry. Inconsolably. So does watching the finish of almost any race. This is somewhat surprising, as I am not a crier in any other situation. But show me someone working towards the finish of a race, be it a 4 minute mile or a 4 hour marathon and the waterworks start. With that in mind, I am sharing an article and clip that made me cry like crazy.
I grew up with Taylor. He and his brother Xander are the closest that I have to brothers. Taylor's parents both run and in fact, are probably part of the reason I went with running in junior high. Clearly Tayz and I found different ends of the running spectrum; he's an unbelievable 400 runner (those quads!) and I throw up at the thought of a 400, even one 20 to 30 seconds slower than what T runs.
Taylor was part of the DMR team that won Nationals last weekend and my sister forwarded both a clip and an article about the team. I made it through the article with minimal mistiness. I did not do so well with the YouTube clip. So Taylor, I'm infinitely proud, excited to have someone to talk running with and look forward to sharing the roads for the next 60 years, or until we decide to replace running with power-walking.
Enjoy all. Congrats to the Allegheny team.
Article: http://bit.ly/hUlk7q
You Tube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v
I grew up with Taylor. He and his brother Xander are the closest that I have to brothers. Taylor's parents both run and in fact, are probably part of the reason I went with running in junior high. Clearly Tayz and I found different ends of the running spectrum; he's an unbelievable 400 runner (those quads!) and I throw up at the thought of a 400, even one 20 to 30 seconds slower than what T runs.
Taylor was part of the DMR team that won Nationals last weekend and my sister forwarded both a clip and an article about the team. I made it through the article with minimal mistiness. I did not do so well with the YouTube clip. So Taylor, I'm infinitely proud, excited to have someone to talk running with and look forward to sharing the roads for the next 60 years, or until we decide to replace running with power-walking.
Enjoy all. Congrats to the Allegheny team.
Article: http://bit.ly/hUlk7q
You Tube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Hay is (almost) in the Barn
It's a rough Monday. Between Daylight Savings and a 21 miler yesterday on a "rolling" course, I am one beat-up, exhausted runner girl. In fact, after this post, I'm going to take another catnap, my third in three days. Nothing says Monster Month like the actual need for a nap and vague sensation of hunger at all times.
Yesterday was a tough long run, my second to last 20+ miler of this cycle. When I walked into the club yesterday, Erin's face looked like I felt. We announced ourselves as non-committal and headed out. As turn after turn passed (8 mile loop, 10 mile loop, then13 mile loop), we just kept plugging until we were at the turnaround for the 20 mile option. It wasn't pretty, we weren't as bubbly as we usually are, but we ran a tough 21 miles over hilly terrain with tired legs and minds. As we were sitting in the hot tub after (NOTE: Ice really really really is better, we were being bad girls), we just kept remarking how thrilled we were to get that run in, how pivotal it felt to have another 20 done.
During March or in any month prior to the marathon, many of us plod on with only the faintest glimmer of hope in the form of the taper. The expression "the hay is in the barn," for those unintroduced, comes from the most challenging part of the taper (the 2 to 3 week period prior to a marathon where miles get cut back, everything hurts and a mental battle ensues). It is so hard not to let yourself squeeze one more workout in during these two weeks where workouts don't seem hard enough or long enough to maintain fitness, let alone tune up for a race. We tell ourselves over and over to "trust the training" and "believe in the taper," but it is an incredibly challenging task. Thus, as we finish up the last 3 weeks of this cycle, it may help to consider that every workout we can do well, every well-balanced meal and every good night of sleep is another bale in the barn.
Keep plugging, all. The hay is (almost) in the barn for the Boston runners. For Vermont City folks, you're just starting the hard part, but it too shall pass. One day at a time, one hour at a time, heck, one foot at a time if you need. Just get that hay into the barn.
Yesterday was a tough long run, my second to last 20+ miler of this cycle. When I walked into the club yesterday, Erin's face looked like I felt. We announced ourselves as non-committal and headed out. As turn after turn passed (8 mile loop, 10 mile loop, then13 mile loop), we just kept plugging until we were at the turnaround for the 20 mile option. It wasn't pretty, we weren't as bubbly as we usually are, but we ran a tough 21 miles over hilly terrain with tired legs and minds. As we were sitting in the hot tub after (NOTE: Ice really really really is better, we were being bad girls), we just kept remarking how thrilled we were to get that run in, how pivotal it felt to have another 20 done.
During March or in any month prior to the marathon, many of us plod on with only the faintest glimmer of hope in the form of the taper. The expression "the hay is in the barn," for those unintroduced, comes from the most challenging part of the taper (the 2 to 3 week period prior to a marathon where miles get cut back, everything hurts and a mental battle ensues). It is so hard not to let yourself squeeze one more workout in during these two weeks where workouts don't seem hard enough or long enough to maintain fitness, let alone tune up for a race. We tell ourselves over and over to "trust the training" and "believe in the taper," but it is an incredibly challenging task. Thus, as we finish up the last 3 weeks of this cycle, it may help to consider that every workout we can do well, every well-balanced meal and every good night of sleep is another bale in the barn.
Keep plugging, all. The hay is (almost) in the barn for the Boston runners. For Vermont City folks, you're just starting the hard part, but it too shall pass. One day at a time, one hour at a time, heck, one foot at a time if you need. Just get that hay into the barn.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I'm Here, I'm Here
Lest you think I didn't pen "write blog entries" into my calendar and thus totally forgot, I didn't. It's just that between then and now, I had a funeral and 24 inches of snow to contend with. The upside is that my back and wrists are stronger than they've ever been in a marathon cycle, thanks to some excellent shoveling on Monday. I also got in some BAMF runs, running back and forth on the same stretch of road on Monday and Tuesday. I really hope this is our last storm.
My blog entry for today actually links to another blog I'm writing for, RunVermont's The RunDown. As a pacer for the 4:15 group, today is my big, official introduction for the Vermont City Marathon in May. Click on over there to read more about Howard (my pacing buddy) and me. While you're there, check out a story on my friend E, running her first marathon (I just tweeted at her that we were famous today!), stories from other area runners and great advice from area coaches and physical therapists. In short, you should bookmark The RunDown right next to the bookmark for this blog.
Run (and shovel) on.
~S
(A sad aside, thoughts and prayers go out to the family of Sally Meyerhoff, a former Duke runner who was incredibly talented and a likely Olympic contender. She was killed on her bike yesterday, a scary reminder to all of us of our vulnerability as pedestrians. Please, be careful with high snowbanks and unplowed sidewalks. Run, bike and walk defensively.)
My blog entry for today actually links to another blog I'm writing for, RunVermont's The RunDown. As a pacer for the 4:15 group, today is my big, official introduction for the Vermont City Marathon in May. Click on over there to read more about Howard (my pacing buddy) and me. While you're there, check out a story on my friend E, running her first marathon (I just tweeted at her that we were famous today!), stories from other area runners and great advice from area coaches and physical therapists. In short, you should bookmark The RunDown right next to the bookmark for this blog.
Run (and shovel) on.
~S
(A sad aside, thoughts and prayers go out to the family of Sally Meyerhoff, a former Duke runner who was incredibly talented and a likely Olympic contender. She was killed on her bike yesterday, a scary reminder to all of us of our vulnerability as pedestrians. Please, be careful with high snowbanks and unplowed sidewalks. Run, bike and walk defensively.)
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Wordless Wednesday: OCD
How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.
Friday night, I sat and made my schedule for the remaining days until Boston. What you see is an embarrassing display of OCD. Blue is the run, green is the time of my alarm and red are days I need to make sure to go to bed early. Somehow, micromanaging the next 52 days makes it all seem doable. How do you approach what seems overwhelming and insurmountable?
Plug on.
S
Friday night, I sat and made my schedule for the remaining days until Boston. What you see is an embarrassing display of OCD. Blue is the run, green is the time of my alarm and red are days I need to make sure to go to bed early. Somehow, micromanaging the next 52 days makes it all seem doable. How do you approach what seems overwhelming and insurmountable?
S
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Touche!
Blah Blah Blah Blah
Evidently, what other people hear when we talk about running. How many times have you had an iteration of this conversation?
Evidently, what other people hear when we talk about running. How many times have you had an iteration of this conversation?
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