I kicked off 2016 on March 12th with my third or fourth outing in the RockNRoll DC half marathon. The first race of 2016 was really just a training run for this season’s two big goals: a BQ at the Mountains to Beach Marathon (California) in May and finishing Ironman Chattanooga in September (sans traumatic brain injuries or stress fractures.)

At RockNRoll last year I had a 13.1 PR of 1:41:24. I knew the race this year would be slower and definitely not a record-breaker. Last year the soggy morning I think helped my legs along – less time to sit back and take stock of the joy of running with thousands of friends. This year we had pretty ideal race conditions: a dry upper 40s overcast start to the weekend. If it’d been any warmer or less pleasant I don’t think I could have pulled down the 1:42:20 I ended up with. Knowing what I was working with going in I was pretty happy with that and feel like I’m on track for that coveted Boston 2017 bib.

I knew going in that I was a month behind last year thanks to the month of January spent in South Africa and Madagascar. (I can’t really complain about the lack of conditioning because honeymoon is pretty much the best excuse to be fat [tan] [full] and happy ever.) Once Scott and I were home from our African odyssey I tried to get right down to business, rebuilding my aerobic base and putting the miles back on. (Miles back on my legs, in the saddle, and in the pool. And of course got back to strength work on the megaformer at [solidcore].)

In my runs through February and the first bit of March, I felt so slow. I couldn’t crack into the 7s even on my shortest runs and in 20 degrees. After 2015 where speed felt like it was finally clicking into place – a season marked by my annual stress fracture yes, but also by my first podium (in a sprint in which I’d won the run despite almost no running thanks to said annual stress fracture) and by consistent mid-7 numbers no matter the distance or multi-sport designation – I thought even with a month long sub-Saharan sabbatical I should be able to tick those numbers down right away. Not so.

I complained pathetically to my friend and runspiration, Kim – she of Track Club Babe fame (read her blog for a dose of positive outlook that’ll knock your compression socks off) – and she assured me my pacing would come back and reminded me that 2016 is all about eyes on the M-Dot prize.

In the month leading up to RockNRoll, DC experienced a bipolar vortex, with weekly temperatures ranging from wind-chills below zero to 80 degree summer wardrobe days. Each extreme offered its own conditioning challenges. The east-ward howling headwind that inflated my hood no matter how tight I tied it, turning my winter run-gear into a cranial parachute was unpleasant. But then again so was the 60 degree spike in the thermostat, melting my already tired, unconditioned legs to salty, crampy tree stumps. In the last couple weeks before race day, I managed to squeeze in a couple runs in the high 7s, but more often I was turning in mid to low 8s, and working hard for them.

Race week I changed up my schedule to give myself a full rest day on Friday for the Saturday race. Usually I do one of my two weekly [solidcore] classes on Fridays before work and either spin or run Friday night. Instead I did 2.5 miles Thursday evening on my way to a [solidcore] class, which Coach Sarah was kind enough to make arms and abs-focused. Those 2.5 miles hurt. And they were slow. And the little bit of legs we did in class was painful. That night I texted my race crew, Mike and Chris, and told them Saturday was looking rough. I was starting to worry about cracking 1:50; dreading a really bad performance that might be a really discouraging start to an ambitious race season.

Friday I slept in a bit, freed of my 5am alarm, then slowly walked to work. (I’m competitive even as I commute, running to catch lights and get in front of other pedestrians. I generally arrive at the office sweaty and harried [BUT VICTORIOUS] no matter the weather.) After work, Chris and I hit the expo, which was at the Stadium Armory this year – much less convenient than the Convention Center where it was last year.

Chris tried to convince me to buy $150 of Expo gear so that I could upgrade to a VIP bathroom. I, ahem, shit you not, that’s an upgrade RnR DC (all RnR races?) offers. As into pre-race BMs and Expo spend-happy as I am, you’d expect me to be the target audience here, and even I think that’s absurd. Instead I spent a respectable $75 (oops) and Chris and I metro’ed back to Shaw to meet (my hubs) Scott for pre-race pasta at the same restaurant we went to last year, Dino. (Race-eve or regular night, I love this place! Actually it’s better when you can take full advantage of their very fun and thoughtful wine list.)

Back at home after dinner, I was pretty laid back about putting my gear together, forgetting to do it until the last minute. I guess I had successfully convinced myself that this was nothing more than my long run of the week. I told Scott that it was really nice not caring too much about a race. I was so relaxed – almost too relaxed considering I legitimately almost forgot to get my gear-check bag ready. We went to bed around 10 or 10:30 and I set my alarm for 5:30. It was all pretty standard for any morning workout, and actually a few minutes later than I get up for pre-work training.

I woke up decently-rested, got in an uber at 6am, and was in my first porta potty by 6:20am. I slowly wandered up to the bag check trucks with more than an hour to kill before the first gun would go off. It was quite cold, and I loitered around the W truck for a while before Chris and Mike showed up forcing me to part with all my long-sleeve layers. I hemmed and hawed over whether to go sleeveless or not. It was low-40s and there was a chance of light rain. Mike convinced me to give them up and I’m so glad he did. Within a few minutes of crossing the start line I was warm enough to be comfortable in my tank, and if I’d kept the top layer I’m afraid it would have slowed me down – or at some point I would have been forced to do the awkward strip-while-running routine, replete with trying to remove my arm band without tripping over my headphones. I always keep thermal blankets when they’re passed out after races, so with my NYC Marathon throw-away thermal, I wasn’t too uncomfortable after giving up my sleeves and gear bag.

Knowing I was a month behind last year in training, I hadn’t been sure what to guestimate as my finishing time. I think I predicted 1:44, which landed me in corral 3 out of I’m not sure how many – several dozen though – so I crossed the start line just three minutes after the gun. This happily meant less time to freeze and regret giving up my sleeves, and less elbow-throwing to find a place and pace in the first couple miles.

Last year I remember it being much more crowded in the beginning of the race – a people-heavy predicament which showed up in my splits. Actually, while I was slower overall this year, I was so much more consistent this time out. Last year I fluctuated almost every mile – from mile times in the 8s to my first ever 6’er in a race. This year, no 6’ers, but, with the exception of the evil Rock Creek hill, my mile times were all within 20 seconds of each other. Maybe I’m giving myself too much credit, but as someone who has always struggled with pacing, doing a better job in this category feels like I’m maturing as a runner.

That said, (bragged,) the hill in Rock Creek really did me in this year. That was the point at which I acutely felt my want of conditioning. Hills are usually my jam. I generally charge up them as fast as I can and trust in my fitness that I’ll recover. This year I crept up slowly, unable to turn up the turn-over, and once at the top, it took me at least half a mile to recover my breath, my stride, and my heart rate. Cresting Rock Creek this year felt less like the accomplishment it has previously, and more like a badly-performed T2 (bike to run transition) in a triathlon I haven’t prepared for.  This mega-incline hits close to the half-way point (of the half anyway … poor full marathon folks) and I became legitimately concerned that I wouldn’t be able to regain my pre-climb pace. Eventually I got my legs back underneath me and settled back into the 7:40s – definitely benefiting from some downhill stretches in the later miles.

I was hoping to see my hubbie and pup around mile 10, but I beat them there by a few minutes, so that was a bittersweet missed connection. Last year I missed them around mile 8 because I was too distracted by being drenched and miserable – they saw me, I just kept my head down and didn’t see them. Better luck in 2017?

The remaining miles were pleasantly uneventful – with one adorable exception.

I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned here my longstanding obsession with Great Danes, but suffice it to say, this decades long love-affair has become perhaps unhealthy in recent months. After hitting the 11 mile marker I was holding pretty steady at 7:45 min/mile. I remember thinking that I could maintain that the last two miles, but that I definitely didn’t have anything extra left in the tank. I mentally committed to that pace for the next 16 minutes. About ten strides later I turned right up a small incline, and what did I see? Only the most beautiful blue harlequin Great Dane in history. I reflexively gasped and lost all control of my breathing. I paused trying to decide if I should ask to pet it. Or just grab it and go. (That was out of the question because I knew I was out of sprinting gas.) I decided to stay the course and not stop (I’d probably never start again) but the brief hyperventilation and adrenaline surge totally upended my plan to hold that steady 7:45.  The presence of a giant, beautiful, smooshy dog was very nearly my undoing. I may need to wear blinders for my A races the rest of the year. Or I just need my own Great Dane. Ultimately I was able to speed it back up in the final stretch to the finish line, but I would have been closer to last year’s time without that cuddly distraction.

I was the first out of my race crew to finish so I headed to gear check to put some layers back on and get some calories back in. It was lovely not finishing during a downpour. I collected arm-loads of water, gatorade, chocolate milk, bananas, and pretzels on my way to the gear check trucks. Once fully laden with noms and warm clothes I posted up on a hill near the finish line.

While nomming and waiting, I met an older gent (early 60s) who will be running Ironman Chattanooga for the second time this summer. He had lots of great advice for the race and for tackling IM in general.  He had just lost his wife to a long battle with cancer in January, and told me how diving into tri training has been his solace through her sickness and now in her absence. It broke my heart while reinforcing my love for this community of people and this sport.

Chris finished, gathered his own gear and met me and my new, inspiring friend. Mike was doing the full 26.2 so we hung out a while and then wandered over to the finisher’s shoot to cheer him in.  Mike didn’t have the race he was hoping for, but his bad day is most people’s best day ever, and he was really upbeat in the face of disappointment. He layered back up, and with the crew complete we were able to put the calories back in for real.  (Good because by then I’d been done and getting hungrier for close to two hours.)

After a disastrously rainy year last year (see 2015 race report) Rock ‘n’ Roll organizers did a great job of revamping the finish area so it was more convenient to the metro and offered more opportunities to not be soaked and freezing. Fortunately we didn’t need the dry changing areas this time, and instead got to take advantage of the food trucks and Michelob tent.

We hit up the DC Slices truck (most popular at the race by far) and plowed through some serious carbs. Then we very happily made use of our beer tickets and enjoyed some pretty decent music before heading to the metro and home.

Because people were able to enjoy the finish area this year, the metro wasn’t mobbed, and I was able to get right on a train. Somehow DC’s weekend metro service was running smoothly and I was home with the hubs and the pup in no time – making up for missing them earlier. I love that this race is on a Saturday and so easy to get to and from. It leaves the rest of the weekend available which makes me feel like less of a selfish race-drone. I couldn’t really ask for a better start to 2016.

 

 

 

 

Picking up from NYC Marathon installment one’s cliffhanger conclusion at the Staten Island start line, seconds before the race began…

…Our wave was cued to start with a cannon. Close and loud enough that it prompted several yelps of surprise and smoke you could actually see and smell. We surged forward in one pulsating mass of nerves and excitement. My first NYC Marathon and second ever marathon was beginning.

Nearing the starting sensors and the Verrazano Bridge, the crowd thinned enough to accelerate into a trot. I was in Wave 1 and right next to the 3:20 pace group. In healthier days those would have been my people. Instead I was aiming for around a 9:30 mile average to encourage my ankle to hold out. I opted to go out in the first wave anyway, to buy myself time to actually finish in time for our 6pm Amtrak home. Wave 1 set off at 9:50, I had friends in later waves who didn’t start till after 11am.

I’d decided to be selfish, going out early in a pace group I couldn’t keep up with to buy myself as much time as possible to finish. I was worried that the people around me would hate me, or that I would feel so self-conscious I wouldn’t be able to keep myself slow and I’d end up sabotaging my own success by hitting 7:30s out the gate to save face.

It ended up not being a problem. Things were crowded enough on the Verrazano that everyone around me was pretty much consigned to my 9:30 goal pace for the first mile. And once we crossed over the Bridge into Brooklyn it wasn’t crowded enough that anyone would be mad at me for gumming up the works. So with the crowd’s help, I settled into something around a 9:30 min/mile, and I did my best to stay there.

Like I had for the Army Ten Miler, I’d turned coaching off my Nike + app so I wouldn’t hear my pace and try to compete with a healthy version of me. I would instead run off feel and perceived exertion – keeping the effort well under max.

We crossed off the bridge and into Brooklyn just before mile 2, and immediately the crowd support was incredible. People everywhere cheering – old, young, whole families, tons of dogs, everyone was out. (I’m unhealthily dog-crazy so four-legged friends on the sidelines are a mixed bag because they give me the happies, but I also want to stop and say hi to each one.)

The same adrenaline-fueled glee that had pumped me up on the start line kept me sailing thanks to the crowds. It made me want to go faster but I held my legs to that pace I’d started with, trying to keep a rough count of time between mile markers. It seemed to work, at the 5k mark I was at 28:16 so just slightly faster than the 9:30 goal but pretty on point.

Huge race plus: The course was very well marked: Each mile and each 5k mark were dressed in celebratory signage accompanied by a digital clock. I was pretty sure I’d crossed the start line at around the four minute mark, so I had a decent idea of where I was without my app or GPS telling me explicitly.

The mind games also kicked in early. The first couple miles I was focusing hard on my ankle and whether it was ok. Then I would try to shake such thoughts from my head afraid I’d psychosomatically will my bones to fail. Eventually my thoughts were entirely overcome by the positivity of the experience. There was too much else to look at and listen to and think about to dwell on what may or may not happen.

People lined all twelve miles through Brooklyn. I probably benefitted from being in Wave 1 – early on in the day with spectator energy cranked up to eleven. I had a repeat of the Army Ten in terms of pre-race over-hydration, and had to pee by mile two. I held out till I’d finished my first 10k, then ran through the crowd into a line of porta potties. Another race plus was the bounty of bathrooms along the way – of which I made enthusiastic and leisurely use several times along the way!

At mile eight the orange, green, and blue courses converged into one. I had not memorized the course well enough, and at this marker I assumed we were running into Queens. Borough three! I thought! This is going great!

Six miles later, the crowds momentarily thinned while we ran over what I realized was the Pulanksi Bridge…we were of course met with a “Welcome to Queens” sign on the other side. I was a borough short of where I’d thought I was.

That realization stung like lactic acid build-up for a moment, but was quickly swept aside with the never-ending crowds’ never-ending enthusiasm.

Going slow and not really “racing” meant my mind and eyes were free to wander and take in the support and energy. And the signs! So many signs! There were the usual pick-me-ups like Mario Bro’s ‘Slap here to power-up’ posters, and joking digs like ‘Worst Parade Ever’.

There were more personalized messages than I’ve ever seen. Even though they weren’t for me each one touched me as I thought about the awesome friends and families (and dogs!) out supporting the people they cared about – out rooting for them to succeed. That love is inspiring no matter who the intended recipient is, plus it reminded me of my own friends and incredible husband who had trained with me, donated to Gilda’s Club, and sent me words of encouragement every step of the way.

On a (sort of) lighter note, the best sign I saw (Walking Dead four-weeks-old spoiler alert here!) was a picture of Glenn next to the missive, “If you PR, Glenn gets to live.” While this was the funniest sign I saw, it was also stress-inducing, since I knew damn well I wasn’t about to PR! I just hoped that this beloved-character-life-or-death entreaty was meant for someone else.

My Queens letdown was short-lived and just a couple miles later I was headed uphill onto the Queensboro Bridge – the mile-and-a-half silent struggle I’d heard would give way to the ear-drum shattering crowds lining First Avenue in Manhattan.

In the fifteen miles it took to get there, I’d grown accustomed to rowdy crowds through Brooklyn and Queens.  Their energy begat more energy in the runners around me, and the dull roar had become a comforting backdrop drowning out everything but my playlist.

As we headed up the ramp into the Queensboro (or 59th St Bridge as I’m used to hearing it,) everything got quiet. Eerily so. The crowds shrunk away and it was just footfalls and heavy breathing.  I’d heard this was a tough moment for a lot of NYC Marathoners: crowd support falls away and the sun literally vanishes obscured by the overpass, just as the incline becomes much steeper, and right as you head toward the wall-inducing miles.

Indeed I saw a lot of people slow down to a walk, or even a halt here. Pairs and groups running together started yelling and begging each other on – in some cases pretty forcefully.

I was actually relieved for the silent, technically difficult moments on the way into Manhattan. Psychologically I knew those challenging bits would make the others sweeter by comparison, and I was happy to have a little quiet time with my thoughts, to really live in the experience and my gratitude at having it. Physically my ankle was holding up – I’d felt a few twinges around mile 13 and slowed myself down a little more and the brief pain had gone away – and my fitness was holding up – almost 16 miles into the race (already my longest run of 2015 by far!) and my energy was good and muscles felt fine.

Just before the middle of the bridge we crossed the 25K mark. My pace was still right where I (was pretty sure I) needed it hitting 2:24 at that point, or around 9:24 min/mile. Just past 25K the course started heading downhill into Manhattan.

Where everyone around me celebrated the descent I had mixed feelings about it.

I’ve written before that as a mini human I like going uphill on healthy legs. (Or wheels.) That day my feelings escalated past ‘like’ to need. It’s a lot easier on my hollow bird bones to run uphill safely. While other runners relished the gravity boost and sped up, each time the course veered downhill I felt more out-of-control, and more afraid my ankle wouldn’t survive the beating.

But I was so excited for the moment when we would turn onto First Avenue and the crowd support would reassert itself ten times stronger than it’d been before the bridge.

And that moment did not disappoint.

The crowd was so loud my headphones became obsolete. I pulled the left one out and soaked it all in as I (probably ugly) cried for at least the fourth time that day.

First Avenue carried us about three and a half miles north to the Bronx and the twenty mile mark. That’s about when the first waves of fatigue started to roll in, and the months of not running caught up to me.  (I was slowing way down so catching up to me wasn’t too hard.) I started walking slowly through each water mark, and made lingering use of another bank of porta potties. My ankle also started speaking up in protest against the day’s activities and I obliged dialing my pace way back. (Angry ankle or not, I don’t think I had a choice really.)

We spent only a mile in the Bronx before heading back into Manhattan down Fifth Avenue. Over the Madison Avenue Bridge my mental, emotional, and physical faculties were starting to self-destruct, but I realized we were really in the final stretch as I crossed into my twenty-second unrehearsed mile of the day.

I started doing feverish calculations in my head. At the half-marathon I’d been at 2:01, and had briefly entertained thoughts of picking up the pace a touch to go sub-4. Then my ankle moaned a little and I quickly pushed that recklessness aside. Now at 35k my time was (my original overall goal time of) 3:25 and I was starting to seriously consider walking. But I was so close and didn’t want to come in over five hours, so if I was going to let myself walk I decided I had to time it right – especially as I suspected a quick power walk would feel any better than running so it’d likely be a slow crawl.

I stopped a few times to stretch my hamstrings, which felt amerrrzing. I desperately wanted some pretzels and cursed myself for not packing salt tabs this time around. As I trudged on, a few times I saw folks on the sidelines giving out the salty crunchy snacks I was dreaming of, but always on the other side of the course and it didn’t seem worth the energy to backtrack or dodge and weave to get there. In stead I grabbed at any banana bits being handed out and forced myself to pick my feet up just a little while longer.

After crunching the numbers I made myself a deal  that I could  walk once I passed the 23 mile marker. At that point I’d only have a little over 5k left and I was pretty sure I could walk that much in an hour if I had to. As I reached that self-appointed mile marker of sort-of-rest, I stretched again and slowed to a brisk shuffle.

I walked about half that 24th mile, the whole time struggling hard against my own ego. There were a couple other walkers,  but I was still far enough towards the front of the pack (thanks to my Wave 1 start,) that almost everyone was not only still running – but still looking strong. It was a moment of humility that probably taught me more than any other part of the day.

The lesson being that noone was judging me for walking – noone except myself. I HAD to go easier on myself, to be nicer to myself. I criticize myself a lot, outloud and with expletives. Scott can vouch, I’m always verbally accosting myself. And for every time I voice my disappointment in my body and abilities and dedication and performance, I’m doing it ten more times in my head. I wouldn’t speak to another person the way I speak to myself. (And that’s not because I’m nice – I am admittedly not.)

And so I walked. And cried a little. I ate the handfuls of banana I’d amassed, and I thought about Mo which made me cry a little more. And I told myself good job. You’re doing a good job. You’re almost there.

After about ten minutes my legs had loosened enough that I felt like I could try a slow jog again. Maybe the bananas’ potassium booster had done the trick unlocking my  hamstrings, or maybe I just needed my own moral support to finish the race. Whatever the reason, I was pleasantly amazed to be able to run a little again after thinking I’d have to walk the entire final 5k.

By now we were in Central Park and really almost done. Around the mile 24 mark the path starts to wind mostly downhill. Where I’d dreaded those declines earlier I was so happy for the boost now. As we neared the finish line the crowd got more raucous. At one point I’m pretty sure I heard someone yell my name but I couldn’t tell who it was.

With around two miles to go Scott found and called out to me and seeing my love and biggest cheerleader kicked me into action. It was a second wind like I’ve never felt before. It felt like a store of energy was shaken loose somewhere near my heart and radiated on down to my legs. The emotional adrenaline burst sent me on my fastest tear of the day. My pace dropped to the low-8s and I barely felt the previous 40k.

As we closed in on the finish line and distances were ticked down in meters instead of miles, I felt that energy and adrenaline radiate upward behind my eyes. A serious ugly cry was building.

The last 200m the tears fell hard. (Maybe all the previous crying is what had depleted my salt-stores!) I couldn’t believe I’d done it, and that my much-maligned body and skeleton had pulled me through. My final net time was 4:12:49. Better than I could have asked or hoped for in my condition.

I cry/smiled through finisher photos, collected water and post-race fuel (and obviously my medal) and began the hike out of the Park.

Now for a big piece of advice to anyone doing this race in the future. Months ahead of time you have to choose between a post-race poncho, or bag-check. CHOOSE THE PONCHO. They are crazy nice with fleece lining and the poncho option cuts out your post-run walk by a lot. I went for the poncho, and not only am I snuggling in it right now, I don’t know if I could have walked any further than I did. With proper layering and throw away warm-up clothes in Staten Island, bag check shouldn’t be needed. Even opting for the poncho I walked at least a mile up and out of the Park and back down Central Park West for 12 blocks before I was able to meet up with Scott.

I was so happy to see my gorgeous man. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a cheerleader. The man had checked us out of our hotel, gone to Penn Station to check our luggage, coordinated through the race with my friends who were watching (none of whom I found in the crazy throngs despite their yelling!) and was there waiting with hugs, love, and clean clothes at the finish line.

We slowly shuffled west and plopped ourselves down at the first restaurant we found that could seat us. It happened to be an Italian cafe, so we ordered Peronis and a pizza, and my friend Nick came to join us for a few. (Exciting 2016 side note – Nick just got an awesome Cannondale road bike and is gearing up for his [of many] tri[s]! You know I love when my friends join me in my multi-sport addiction!)

A little before 5pm, Nick accompanied me to Duane Reed for some much-needed Advil, and then Scott and I made our way south to Penn. We snagged seats together on the train, and I attempted to settle in for a  nap, but the adrenaline was still flowing. I gave in and made a trip to the cafe car for snacks and a mini bottle (ok two) of delicious train wine. I wore my medal (and poncho!) proudly and gratefully the whole way home.

What a way to end yet another injury-plagued season. I don’t think I can keep calling 2015 a disappointment after a race like that. I got to be part of something so much bigger than myself – from fundraising for a great organization in the memory of an amazing friend, to being part of an international community of like-minded masochists seeking to challenge their bodies and minds. I learned to love myself more, and to say thank you to the body I’m usually cursing for its deficiencies.

And while it wasn’t the PR/BQ I wanted, I still did get to experience the hard work I’ve put in swimming, biking, and lifting. That fitness and this body got me over the finish line. I still hope that BQ is coming – and soon. And I hope I’ll get to run/cry through my hometown and the greatest city in the world many more times to come.

It’s been a week since the TCS New York City Marathon and I’m still walking on sunshine. Better than that, I’m still walking! (Pain-free!)

And I’m still processing how special that race was and how lucky I am to have run it. It wasn’t the race I planned on having when I signed up many months ago. It was untrained, and about 45 minutes slower than I’d hoped, but in a lot of ways it was also more and better than I originally hoped.

Instead of pushing my legs to move their fastest, I had to pull myself back and prioritize my health and future running career over instant gratification. Rather than bemoan my bones that keep letting me down and holding me back, I had to thank my body for the amazing thing it was doing and letting me do. I know how to push myself to the (literal) breaking point. I know how to run as fast as I can. I know that a healthy me has potential beyond the limitations my osteopenia has put on my race career; and I can and do curse my weaknesses and  mortality constantly. This race was a chance to put my health situation into perspective, and, rather than belittle my body, to celebrate and thank it. A marathon is serious physical business for a healthy, run-trained body. For one coming off (still on) an injury which has lost all run-conditioning it is a (probably cruel) shock to the system and a monumental ask.

In the weeks leading up to race day I hit a lot of emotional peaks and valleys thinking ahead to whether I’d be able to finish at all. I was terrified the ankle would scream from the first step and that I wouldn’t even make it over the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn. If my ankle held out I was afraid my muscles that have been through fewer than twenty running miles since August would cramp and seize from the shock of it all. I crested a few high points where I thought, nahh, my adrenaline and fitness and muscle memory will get me through it. At really delusional high moments (high in so many senses of the word) I thought I could even still manage a sub-4. Intellectually I knew that was idiotic, but I don’t really run with my brain.

Scott and I took Amtrak up to NYC the Friday before the race, which happened to be my birthday, which also happens to be the birthday of my friend Mo, in whose memory I was fundraising and running. It makes for a bittersweet day.

Scott of course showed me an amazing time, with dinner and Hamilton round two. (I am so disgustingly lucky to have seen this show not once, but twice. Seriously second-mortgage your house, sell your kids or organs, do whatever you need to. Just. Go. See. It. [After poop and my fear of my own bicycle, I’m trying to make a musical about the founding fathers the most talked-about item in my race blog!]) After the show we met up with some of my old theatre friends and stayed up till 1:30, which for us is CRAZY late. (But my actor friends are CRAZY fun too – and also just plain CRAZY!)

The next day was devoted mainly to expo and race-prepping. The expo was at the Javitz Center, which happens to be where I took the bar exam back in 2010. (Painting Saturday also bittersweet but in a different way.)

After I picked up my number and packet, Scott went and found a bench to hang out and read a book so that I could buy all the things. (How do people who are not married to Scott get through race weekends???) Getting to the expo on its final day meant a lot of the XS sizes had already been consumed, so I only ended up buying most of the things. That’s probably for the best. (I did buy three more pairs of socks. Stop buying socks, Liz!)

Once I’d just about melted through my plastic (and of course changed into an NYC Marathon branded outfit) Scott and I had a few hours to kill before we were meeting one of my incredibly speedy cousins for a pre-race buffet. Fortunately it was college football’o’clock and we weren’t far from the USC alumni bar, Pennsylvania 6.

We arrived a little before kickoff so we grabbed awesome seats, and I squirmed bit, embarrassed I’d opted for shameless marathon branding over USC.  (I wasn’t thinking when I packed!) I bought myself SoCal cred by proclaiming loudly to the bartender that I too was a Trojan, and screaming wildly for every moderately decent play. Proclaiming my ambivalence about my run time the next day, I also had a beer and a half, two enormous soft pretzels, and wings. I almost regretted my pre-dinner recklessness once we met up with cousin Carol at the buffet, but those pretzels were so good.

I’ve got several cousins who are all mini like me, who run three hour and sub-3 marathons. I think they are the coolest ever, and I loved seeing Carol before the race. She’s done NYC seven times and in my mind she’s a total race celebrity. After indulging as much as I could stand in the Marriott Marquis pre-marathon buffet Scott and I headed downtown to a hotel near the Staten Island Ferry launch, where I’d have to be at 6am the following morning.

By this point I was fully fueled physically, but I was starting to fall apart mentally…

…While the weeks preceding race day had seen altitudinal shifts – as many peaks as valleys – as the moment of run-reckoning crept closer, those peaks became entirely obscured. By the time I was fifteen hours out I was instead living solely between valleys and those kind moments when I forgot I was running the next day.

Every time I remembered I was running became a low point. I told Scott about my amnesia-dread mental ping-pong. He started asking me every so often how I was feeling, and each time I’d respond ‘trough’. By the end of the evening, after buying bagels, peanut butter, and bananas for the morning at a bodega near the hotel, I had begun to unprovoked blurt out, ‘Trough!’ every fifteen minutes or so – which was about how often thoughts of what I was sure was impending race catastrophe collided with my emotional fortitude.

I went through the pre-race motions of laying out clothes and race-fuel, breakfast and everything else I would need in a few hours. I have a button shaped like a heart and inscribed with a cursive M that Mo’s family had made for all her friends – Team Maureen – when she was diagnosed for the final time. That was carefully affixed to my tights. If anything could lift me out of the pre-race troughs it was to think about the bigger picture.

I finished my night-before ritualizing, including the crucial task of cutting the sleeves off my Gilda’s Club race tee. The team shirt was really nice: cute, well-made, and actually small enough for me. But I can’t run in short-sleeves. I have to have either long sleeves or a tank top. I find short sleeves really uncomfortable. They rub between my bicep and torso, (probably because my guns are so huge, right?) bunch up uncomfortably around my arm band, and, depending on the weather and level of exertion, leave me overheated. So, feeling a little guilty but needing to honor the part of myself that is a total meathead, I sliced and diced my team tee into a tank top.

It was about 11pm when I finally drifted to sleep – though thanks to a well-timed daylight savings, I told myself that it was really 10pm. In bed at 10 with a 5am wake-up meant I was getting 30-60 minutes more sleep than most nights, so given my race-pace ambivalence, I felt pretty good about my REM-cycle prognosis.

The early pre-ferry morning was uneventful. I was out the door and in an uber by 5:45. And then at the ferry by 5:47 because I had not realized just how close it was. (Cheapest uber ever but the driver was nice about it!)

I was signed up for the 5:45 ferry, because for some reason charity runners got the shaft and got to pref our race transportation after everyone else already had. I was in Wave 1 which didn’t start till 9:50am, and 5:45 was the latest ferry still available when it was my turn to sign up. However I learned from Carol and other NYC veterans that no one cares or checks. This was completely true, and I walked right onto the 6am with a couple hundred other runners no problem.

Usually I steer clear of coffee before a race, given my nervous tummy. But with almost four chilly and sure-to-be-boring hours to digest before the gun would go off I thought some warm caffeine on the boat might be in order. And I was shocked to discover it was really good! I was happy to have the yummy, heated wake-up.

The ferry was pretty funny, because its human composition was 99.999999% runners, and a few very confused-looking morning-after revellers wrapping up their Saturday nights. The race was Nov. 1, so these post-party stragglers were all in costume – most of them rocking gory zombie face paint and other festive accoutrements. They probably expected to slink quietly home, unnoticed, before the sun was fully up to sleep it off. Instead they were on a boat with hundreds of excited and decidedly sober marathoners. I felt a little bad for our confused undead shipmates, but I couldn’t help laughing at them too.

The ride to Staten Island was about twenty minutes. Once off the ferry, everyone is loaded onto buses for another thirty minute ride to the start line festival. We arrived there around 7am and immediately encountered airport-style security – with the obvious exception that we could keep our water bottles. (Actually the guy in front of me tried to leave his behind like at TSA, and the police called to him that he should take it because it’s important to hydrate before a marathon.)

As expected, I got to spend almost two hours bored out of my skull but too cold to sleep before it was even time to hit my corral. Happily it was not as cold and windy as last year apparently, and between my long tights, long sleeved running shrug, the disposable jacket I bought at the expo, (the best $10 I spent there) and the fleece beanies Dunkin’ Donuts was handing out (life-savers!) I wasn’t too uncomfortable. I did wish that I’d remembered the old junky sweats I was going to wear and pitch, but hearing war stories of the race-day wind in 2014, I could not complain.

A little before 9am I joined one of the many porta potty lines (this race was well-stocked with bathroom options). In line I met a woman who’d come up to do her first marathon from Uruguay which was very cool. While hanging out all morning I heard many languages spoken. With just under 50% of racers hailing from the US, I loved how international and inclusive the event felt.

International things I didn’t love as much: the testicles of the French men standing ten feet from me most of the morning, who pulled their very loose and leggy shorts all the way up to apply anti-chaffing cream. I’m not kidding, I saw multi-cultural scrotum on Staten Island at 8am. I generally love endurance athletes’ lack of body shame, but that was a oui (get it?) bit much for moi.

The NYC Marathon is the world’s largest, with over 50,000 runners. To handle the crowds, racers are split into slightly different courses for the first 8 miles – designated by color (green, orange, or blue.) I was in orange, and had been hanging out in the start line festival area designated for my fellow orange bibbers. It took about  10 minutes to walk from there to the actual corral to line up.

I got to the Wave 1 Corral D Orange corral (got all that?) around 9:15, whereupon I commenced more waiting! There were lots of antsy runners crammed into a smaller space, so at least I wasn’t as cold anymore. I ate my second banana and mini bagel with peanut butter (two of each plus coffee, and a bottle of Nuun were my pre-race breakfast) just in time for the slow march to the actual start line.

As we shuffled around trailers and grandstands, the Verrazano Bridge came into view, and I was lifted out of my trough by waves of excitement and gratitude.

I’d wondered for weeks if this were a good idea – if this would be worth it. Right then I knew it was – if only for that moment. I’ve never felt a crowd of thousands stir to life at the exact same emotional moment like that. The first of many tears that day began to spill. I wasn’t cold anymore, and I wasn’t worried. Whatever happened I was a part of something special and far Far FAR bigger than myself.

 

As promised, I am on the train to New York, and as expected, I am feeling less-than-confident about what Sunday will even look like.

Marathon day will hit exactly three weeks after Army Ten, and the ankle is doing much better since my post about that mistake. I haven’t run of course – except for a few experimental steps to catch a light or the bus. It’s been rainy this week so I’ve felt some aches and pain as pressure changes. And sometimes in the morning, especially heading down the stairs first thing, I feel it. But otherwise it’s been much quieter since those first terrible days after Army Ten.

Yesterday I went to see my poor, downtrodden, sick-of-me orthopedist. He poked at and pressed on my ankle from different angles and it felt fine. He stared at me incredulously, did the expected head-shaking and eye-rolling, shot down my witch doctor suggestions like PRP injections, and reluctantly gave his blessing for Sunday.

I asked about the best way to approach race day: run a few miles and walk one, do the whole thing really slow, run as far as I could to put mileage behind me before walking the rest? His advice was to just run it at a slow jog and try to keep a light pace. He did not support a walk-run approach as changing it up like that could be too unpredictable on it.

So that’s the plan. Go out slow and easy and light. I’m aiming for something in the 9s I guess, without any expectation that I’ll maintain that pace for 26 miles. I still want to at least go out under a 10 average to buy myself enough room if I have to, to walk the last couple (or dozen). I’ve got six and half hours to get through the course – which means I need to average about 14 minutes/mile to avoid getting swept up by the bus. I’m going out in the sub-elite group of Wave 1 (isn’t that funny?) so that at least buys me maximal course time to get this thing done. (Though it won’t win my any friends or admirers in that corral.)

People always describe endurance sports as being as much a mental  challenge as physical. The mental aspect is there in every race for sure, but with training and in good health, unless we’re talking Ironman, I’d say the physical  obstacles overshadow the mental – at least for me being mostly young(ish) and healthy(ish).

Not Sunday.

Sunday is going to be a brain game. My mind over the weakness of my matter. (Mind over marrow? Man I wish I hadn’t gotten all those concussions now.) I’ve got my music ready to go which will help. I’ve added some good stuff to the mix, but really a lot of it will come down to the Hamilton soundtrack. I haven’t let myself listen to it for a few weeks, hoping a little auditory denial will pay off when Aaron Burr drops the beat come race day. (No pressure Lin Manuel-Miranda, but my marathon basically lives and dies with you. [My marathon has its eye on you? Fellow musical theatre nerds?])

(Mostly) joking about that. (Mostly.) But seriously, I am so out of my mind (truly, see below) disappointed. I was so excited about the opportunity to do this race. It’s been a dream. And healthy Liz was minutes off a BQ eighteen months ago – it should have been no problem this weekend. I’m consistently and securely and comfortably pulling mid-7s, and I’ve worked really hard to get here, and year after year, fall marathon after fall marathon, it comes to nothing.

Over the last few weeks I’ve experienced waves of sadness – of regret – and I haven’t even crossed the start line.  Why does my body continue to let me down?

I keep asking myself what I could have done better or differently. The answer is really nothing. My worn out ortho went over my dexascan (bone density test) results with me and turns out they actually are not normal like I was told by the lab. I’ve got a density issue, and likely osteopenia in my ankles. He is hopeful though that work with my nutritionist will help, and wants me to see an endocrinologist too who can maybe get my body to absorb calcium and vitamin D correctly. Women have till age 35 to maximize bone density before it heads downhill – and as today is my 32nd birthday, the clock is ticking. (Why does no one believe my that I’m 29?!)

I’ve mentioned my pity parties before, and spent some previous blog time wallowing. No real updates on that except it gets worse as race day approaches. Also, now that Walking Dead is back, I have a new healthy thought: that my broken ankles are going to cost me my life in the inevitable zombocalypse. I’m pretty concerned about it. (Maybe, in a brilliant twist of undead, multi-sport irony, my bike will save me.)

As I stress about keeping my brain un-et, and envy the orthopedic fortitude (fortho-tude?) of every casual morning jogger I encounter, I swear to you dear reader (hi Mom!) that I’m never too far from the actual reality of my situation. I am alive, and mostly healthy, and I have a helluva husband who is sitting right next to me (literally at the moment and always figuratively). (And I’ve gotten made bday love on FB today – the true measure of support in one’s life! Thanks y’all! [I kid, but really, thank you!])

Here’s what’s most important though: I‘m running this weekend in memory of one of the most important friends I will ever have. My birthday twin, inspiration in all things fashion and attitude, solemate (yes that’s how I mean to spell that), the woman for whom my beloved Birkin is named, passed away two years and three days ago.

I can’t tell you how many hearts daily break remembering that she’s left us. I can tell you though that my friends and hers, and her amazing family, have helped to raise over $3400 in Mo’s memory, all going to the incomparable Gilda’s Club where it will be put to good use assisting people still battling that bastard cancer.

So that’s the real mental challenge of Sunday. Remembering every (likely painful) step that it’s not about me. I’m just the one who’s lucky enough to be on the course. And maybe at the end I’ll get something pretty and shiny to show for it. Mo would like that.

It’s been two weeks now since the Army Ten Miler, and in case you’re wondering…

…no, running was apparently not a great idea. My ankle was not healed and putting ten “training” miles on it was not helpful in terms of getting my broke ass over the finish line at NYC next week.

It was really fun though. (And served as a totally unnecessary reminder that I really love running.)

But alas in the days following the race, my ankle was ANGRY. I could barely walk, my ankle was just screaming in pain. Now 14 days out I still feel it some but it’s much improved. The closer we get to race day the more I can’t believe I have to run a completely untrained, injured marathon. (Of course I don’t have to. But not at least starting is a nonstarter.) I’ll do some more pre-marathon reflecting on Amtrak on the way to the race, for now, an actual 10 Miler race report.

The last few years, along with the Marine Corps Marathon, I’ve been registered for and missed the Army Ten Miler repeatedly thanks to these stress fractures.  I’ve never actually done Marine Corps, but I have done Army (not since 2012) so I knew what I was missing: a fan-f***ing-tastic race.

It’s the third largest ten mile race in the world, and the service men and women who run it and volunteer for it make for a really inspiring day. They also inspire huge crowds of supporters to line up along every possible inch of the course reverberating energy and good will.

Early to mid October is a great time to run in DC, and the couple times I’ve been able to participate (and those times like last year when I was relegated to sideline-reverberating [and maybe throwing pity party while coveting the healthy bones of the participants]) the weather has been beautiful. This year the morning was chilly, in the 40s, but in the 50s for most of the race. It was sunny, but not too glaring or roasting. (I say that, but Scott might feel differently since after realizing in the corral that I’d forgotten my own sunglasses I convinced him to give me his. And it was his birthday so, [not the best] wife of the year basically.)

I’m not sure what I predicted my time would be way back on that fracture-free optimistic (naive-but-should-have-known-better) spring day when I registered, probably something like 74 minutes. Whatever I predicted it was fast enough to place us in the first wave behind the Wheelchair and Wounded Warrior group. (Remember how I said it was an inspirational race?)

The only negative to seeing all the wounded racers and hand-cyclists, was that it made me think, well if these incredible people can do this with much more legitimate health complaints, then I surely can do it on a stress fracture! I think in retrospect the better lesson to have gleaned would have been, take care of your health and your body because these gifts can be fleeting.

Knowing I wouldn’t be going out as fast as healthy (stupid) Liz predicted, we positioned ourselves towards the middle of the corral and shivered for 45 minutes until the start gun went off. I was more bundled up than almost anyone else in the corral with my throw away thermal reflecting blankie from a previous race, and long sleeves on top and bottom. Not sure how the folks there in tanks and shorts survived. If we do Army Ten again next year we definitely won’t arrive an hour before start time – though it was at least a mile walk from where our Uber dropped us through all the corrals.

I’m grateful for (willfully blind) Liz’ presumption of health because being in the first wave is so necessary in Army 10. The gun went off at 8am and we were over the start line at 8:01. Others waited close to an hour as they inched their way up that long mile to the start. Though we began together, Scott and I soon lost each other in the crowd (I’m mostly an alone runner – with a few exceptions like half irons and full marathons on stress fractures. More on that next week.)

Everyone around me gleefully floored it onto the course, and I was battling down the urge to step on the gas too, but I mentally strong-armed (legged) myself into a stride a little slower than normal race pace. Like always I’d hit shuffle on my race mix, and like often, my iPod came through with the perfect beat in the song, S.O.B. by Nathanial Rateliff. When people pass me – running or even just walking around town – it triggers some innate competitive Pavlovian impulse to speed up. I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time, so it took a lot of effort to just stay the course – and the BPM. I actually ended up hitting repeat on that song once, to will myself to stay steady and safe.

I turned off coaching on the Nike+ app so that I wouldn’t compete with health mile times, and so I wasn’t sure what my pace was. I just knew that the pace felt easy and nowhere near max exertion.  In our too-long, too-cold corral hang out, I had downed a water bottle of Nuun, and by the time we started I had to pee. Figuring I wasn’t supposed to care about speed, just after the mile 2 marker I found a heaven-sent bank of porta potties. I took my time and peeled off my long-sleeved outer layer. I got myself readjusted – race belt, phone sleeve, and all that and set back out. Looking back at the Nike GPS, my mile time went from a 7:45 to 9:41 for mile 3, and I was actually proud of myself for taking that leisurely break rather than letting the race energy take over.

Miles 3 through 6 were just pure joy. People were everywhere cheering, there were bands, the weather could not have been better, my pace felt free and easy, and my ankle didn’t feel anything. Heading up the slight incline on Independence Ave I was so happy and had no question in my heart or legs about the wisdom of deciding to run. How could I not have run on such a glorious day?

Around mile 7 my left knee was aching some, which has been happening time to time this year. It acted up towards the end of the Rock N Roll Half, and in the last mile of the Nation’s Tri run. Still the ankle was holding up.

Then…the mother-clucking 14th Street Bridge. My nemesis. I will say I prefer running it to biking it. Honestly it was fine until half way through mile 8 when my right side started seizing into an awful cramp. I’m pretty sure I over fueled – meted out my nutrition like I would have for an all out effort which was unnecessary. My stomach was displeased with all the sugar in that 10k mark gu.

I walked about 30 seconds and tried again. And nope, ouch. So after 30 more seconds of running I walked about 2 or 3 minutes and then slowly picked up the pace. The cramp started working its way out, but then, son of a stitch, my ankle started squawking! It really freaked me out, so I took it way slow. But at that point I was almost at the mile 9 marker, and I was on a bridge so it wasn’t like I could have walked off the course anyway.

As I jogged, my ankle worked itself out and quieted, and the gu made its way less stabbingly through my digestive tract. Then Sia’s “Alive” shuffled onto the ol’ run mix and I started to feel great again. Next came one of my favorite tracks from Hamilton the Musical (“Satisfied” if you know the show; download it if you don’t) and that carried me over the finish line. A few hundred yards from the end I happened upon my tired hubby so we ended up crossing it together.

Upon finishing, I felt like I could have gone another 10 (or 16.2?) miles. Most days it’s disappointing to finish a race so full of energy, but considering my goal was to take ‘er easy, I was very happy with that result. I really felt like I’d done right by my body and ankle, and the ankle felt fine. The only things bothering me were the left knee a touch and a blister I’d worn into the arch of my right foot. Apparently those socks are too thick for my Nike Frees – glad I know before I try for 2.5x the distance.

Official race time showed a 1:22:56 with an 8:18 average. That’s about 8 minutes slower than I would have probably been happy with otherwise, but it was right on the money for what I (thought I) wanted/needed out of that day.

We finished early enough that the crowds were thin in the finisher’s area so we booked it out of there to take advantage of the still-empty metro. We walked the long mile back through the endless corrals and managed to time the weekend trains perfectly. (For the non-DCers, timing the metro perfectly even in rush hour is a miracle these days – on a Sunday it felt unreal.)

We decided on the way home to hit a noon showing of The Martian (one of our favorite books and now movies!). When we got off the train we wolfed down a quick brunch (and a couple mimosas), showered, and headed up to our favorite  theatre. After the movie, it was beautiful out, and it was Scott’s birthday, so we took the long and scenic route home, ambling through the DC Zoo and meandering up and down random streets in whatever you call the opposite of a beeline back home. The whole walk was probably close to 4 miles, and still my ankle felt fine. I was thinking, ‘yeah, today was great, what was I so afraid of?’

And then, it was Monday. And I could barely walk.

The few days after the race were really terrible. I was in so much pain. And so afraid that I’d really ended the NYC Marathon chase for good. I tried taking the bus to work instead of walking, and started doing what I am loathe to: I commuted in sneakers! I am vain and shoe-obsessed, but even my many adorable commuter flats could not quiet my shrieking, hysterical ankle. So I’ve been sucking it up and lacing up to get to and from the office. (It’s probably character-building, [and hopefully bone-rebuilding] as I’m sure my preening vanity over footwear is not healthy.)

Things are feeling a lot better since then. Today Birkin and I went down to cheer on all the Marine Corps Marathoners and we probably walked 8 miles over the course of over 4 hours. We even had to run for a couple traffic lights and things felt good.

But I’m still basically in a constant panic over next weekend.

I surpassed my fundraising goal a few days ago by close to $400 and I’ve been overwhelmed by friends’ support and generosity in that effort. More than that, I am running in memory of my friend Mo who passed two years ago this Tuesday and her family has made my heart ache more than my ankle ever could with their support and love and I do not want to let her or them down.

I’m going to the ortho on Thursday, probably for one of those plasma injections, and we’ll see if that helps at all. And Im trying to make a plan for when to walk and when to run next Sunday. Again, more on all that later this week. (I’ve got a lot planned for our Amtrak trip!)

The jury is out for me on whether Army Ten was a good or bad idea. Before the race I’m pretty sure I was getting close to being recovered from the fracture, and I’ve reversed that progress rather than giving myself 3 more weeks of uninterrupted recovery. Then again, it’s hard to regret a day that wonderful.