Today was a good day. Today, I made progress – progress that I could feel. Every ride, run, swim is presumably running biking swimming me closer to my goals, but some days that progress is tangible and cheesily enthralling.

I woke up sore from a tough week and rode to [solidcore] where class was hard as hell but fun as hell too when I was pleasantly surprised that a bunch of workout besties were also taking class. My legs felt like spent cement even before our hamstring, glutes, and adductor sets sought to break my poor rubber-muscles down fiber by fiber. Climbing back on Koopa Troop for the mile back home after class, I could barely lift my leg over the 44 frame (yeah you read that right). It was GORGEOUS out though, and as I pedaled, the beauty of the day overshadowed (oversunned?) the lactic acid flooding my dead tired legs.

The sensations of the still-early sun, the mostly-clear streets, the satisfaction of an ass-kicking work-out, my loose shorts and tank blowing in a slight breeze, and the confidence gleaned from having put in the miles this summer combined into a little mid-morning euphoria. I realized, holy shit, I’m enjoying being on my bike. In the city. I don’t feel scared. I’m not death-gripping the handle bars. And I actually want to stay out here and ride further than just the mile and change home.

So that’s what I did.

I threw in a few extra turns and miles and took my time getting back. I walked into the apartment in a great mood, encouraged that I could actually feel and witness the progress I’m making.

Scott went and got us some Sbux egg sandwiches to celebrate (I’m a yuppie and I’m not ashamed.  [And if that’s a surprise to you dear reader, might I remind you that this is a blog about triathlons.  Yuppiedom pretty well assured by the subject-matter.]) After a few hours packing (ugh, moving. [Anybody want to buy a one-bedroom condo in Logan Circle DC???]) and lazing, I loaded Koopa Troop into Yoshi and headed to Hains Point to pedal out a few more miles.

My legs felt like lead and lactic build-up, so I decided to just do a few slow and easy laps to spin them out and at least put in more time in the saddle. It’s the only way to build the confidence and the handling skills.

At a slow clip, as I headed into my second lap I reached out to the end of my right aero and shifted into a higher gear for a little more work. As I did so, I let my arm hover over the shifter a minute, and, letting the good day motivate me on, dropped it down onto the aero bar.

As soon as I dropped my elbow onto the armrest, I felt a wave of hot/cold panic sweep over and under my skin. The prickly tingly fear that tries like hell to take over your thoughts and motor skills has become all-too familiar. I forced myself to remain in place, and recited the mantra I’d worked out before NYC Tri with Ellen: “Calm the fuck down, Liz.”

Seriously, that’s it. Calm the fuck down, Liz. And it works! It’s great. I repeated it out loud a few times, and as I did, the cold sweat and nausea subsided. I forced myself to breath, and told myself I was doing great. And I managed to hang on and hang out there on that aero, growing calmer over the course of a couple miles.

I didn’t work up the courage today to move the left arm to join my right, so I’m sure I looked like a clown biking around the Point in a half dynamic position. But I didn’t care. This was real progress. First the rediscovered joy and extended commute of the morning, and now this tangible move in the right direction.

I practiced moving my right arm on and off the aero bar a few times, and then spun out an easy couple miles to finish. As I strapped KT back onto my bike rack and maneuvered Yoshi through the tourist-clogged DC streets home, I felt so proud and so hopeful. I’ve still got a long way to go, (and there is no there there?) but at least I’m starting to see the distance I’ve already covered.

 

Hills, heat, and the Hudson!

(Also my apologies, this post is unconscionably long.)

This weekend was my first tri since Nation’s last year, and just my second since the crash. I’ve been doing daily two-a-days and trying to put in hours on the road to get my bike confidence back up. If nothing else I felt very fit going into the race.

My racing buddy for the weekend was my bunkie Diana. Bunks and I have known each other over twenty years (!!) having attended the greatest camp in the world (Brown Ledge spirit never dies!) for eight summers just outside Burlington, VT. Over the winter I suggested we sign up for the NYC Tri lottery, and wonder of wonders, we both got in!

I was SO PUMPED to do this race, and my friends’ and family’s (justifiable?) concerns about voluntarily swimming with the (dead) fishes in the Hudson could not thwart my enthusiasm. What could be better than a tri in the greatest city on earth?! (That point is not up for debate.) Plus it would be a new place to race close enough to DC that it would still be easy to transport my bike. Right? RIGHT?

Ahem, wrong. The entire week preceding the race was passed frantically obsessing over whether to drive or take Amtrak. So many pros and cons were weighed against each other, each time yielding a different answer.

The drive between NYC and DC is completely unpredictable. I’ve done it in under four hours, and I’ve had it take as many as nine. (During which I had to pee for the final three.) I was going alone and don’t love alone road trips, and having a very pricey bike on the back of the car really complicates bathroom breaks on the road. Plus with NYC Tri being the earliest race ever and plans to follow it with a brunch at which I would definitely be craving alcohol of the bottomless variety, driving was a scary option for its falling-asleep-at-the-wheel potential and brunch option limitations.

But taking the train would mean lugging all my race shit, including most impossibly, my beloved (Cervelo P3) Koopa Troop. I don’t have a facncy travel pack yet that would allow me to check KT safely, so I would have to wheel or carry him onto the train. I called Amtrak and they said that was fine, I could put him in a wheelchair spot as long as no one in an actual wheel chair needed it. (KT is kind of like a wheelchair, in that he has wheels and I sit on him.) Once on the train I would again have the challenge of keeping an eye on him, which would be difficult unless I could get there early and snag a seat next to the wheelchair space. This would be doable in DC where the Amtrak employees have heard of lines and don’t take sadistic pleasure in throwing a train’s departure gate up on an antiquated ticker four and a half minutes before said train is supposed to depart. Yes I am describing the violent cattle call that is boarding  a train at Penn Station, and given their boarding “procedure” at Penn, there was no way to ensure I could get on early and snag KT the wheelchair spot I so needed. Plus I’d have to get KT and everything else to and from Penn whereas with my car I could drive right up to the hotel and valet.

All this could have more succintly been boiled down to: the Tuesday before the race I booked a train. That Friday, ten hours before that train was to depart, I cancelled it. I got a full refund, because, with the exception of the hellscape that is its Penn Station “operation”, Amtrak is awesome.

So Saturday a.m. I got up at 6am so that I could leave via car (my little green Mini Cooper, Yoshi) no later than 7am. At 7:35am I got on the road. (I think that’s still pretty good.)

My trip up was really easy. I managed to do it with just one bathroom/gas stop and made it to the race hotel, the Hilton Midtown, around 11:45. I valet’ed Yoshi and checked my luggage as my room was not ready. Then I went up to the expo where race organizers had the foresight to offer bike valet. This was a lifesaver. I checked Koppa Troop and then wandered around waiting for Bunkie Diana who was coming from far far away Greenwich, Connecticut. (I am joking right here because Greenwich is in fact many hours closer to midtown Manhattan than DC, and yet I beat her by many hours. Also I gave her an entire package of shot blocks and she is now forever in my debt and I will never forget.)

When Bunks (finally!) got in around 2, we attended one of the mandatory safety briefings, (NYC Tri takes safety incredibly seriously, probably because everyone already thinks they/we are lunatics for the whole swimming in the Hudson situation) picked up our packets, did a little expo shopping, and then finally checked into our hotel room. From there we had to haul ass up to transition to drop off our bikes and some gear to make the morning easier, before hustling back downtown for an earlybird pasta dinner and then immediately back to the hotel for bed.

The alarm went off 4am on Sunday morning. We should have made it earlier but both of us had a mental block about anything in the 3s. We had meticulously laid out everything we would need the night before (and applied our sweet arm tats), so we just had to roll out of bed, force feed ourselves (bananas and english muffins with peanut butter), fill up our water bottles with ice, water and nutrition, pre-condition our hair, and go.

If that didn’t look like that short a list, good eye. It wasn’t, and we ended up on a later shuttle than we had planned. Our transition area closed at 5:15am, and as we walked up we heard the announcer say it was just past 5 o’clock. With less than fifteen minutes before we’d have to trek up to the swim start we went running for our bikes and barely got tires inflated (in the crazy heat we had both deflated our tires a bit the night before) and gear arranged before we were being ordered out under threats of penalties and DQs.

So at around 5:17am we and a few thousand others began the mile+ march to the swim start. It was probably around 5:40 when we got there, and we both needed the porta potties stat. (You know how I am; after my bike fears my pre-race bathroom rituals are probably the most popular [poo-pular, anyone?] topic on this silly site.) The porta lines were not bad, organizers did a good job providing the needed facilities, so we took care of that very necessary pre-race ritual, dropped off gear bags, and made it down to the corrals to wetsuit up in plenty of time.

I finally got to wear the incredible Huub suit Scott got me for my birthday last year. He had given it to me early for Nation’s, but then the sewage content was deemed just too high in the Potomac so we didn’t swim. Not so in the Hudson though! I wiggled into my new suit and it fit and felt great, and in I went!

Ahh the swim. Understandable disgust aside, it was lovely. At 4am it was already in the 80s, so by 6:50 (when my wave got in) the 73 degree water felt great. Plus we got to swim with the current point-to-point, so at twenty-two minutes it was an Olympic swim PR for me. (Diana, grew up a swimmer and crushed it at 16 minutes. She’s gross. Remember that time I gave her my shot blocks? I do. )

After the swim came one of my few complaints about this race: the half mile run back to transition. Barefoot of course. If you look at race results, you’ll notice that everyone’s T1 times are absurdly long. I came out of the water having to pee, so with the much-needed bathroom break I clocked an embarrassing 10 minutes. The million mile path to transition was also very narrow, and because it ran next to the bike out path it was very hard to pass anyone without getting a face full of front wheel, so I was forced to run it about half the pace I otherwise would have. Again, 10 minutes. Again, super embarassing.

Then, obviously, it was time to bike. Ya know how I’ve become a basket case on my bike? Of course you do, it’s like all I ever talk about here (besides my tiny nervous bladder). Well this weekend was extra terrible for the nerves as the bike course started up a steep hill that had me totally intimidated and certain that I was going to fall and cause a pile up. Diana and I walked the incline out of transition after racking our bike’s Saturday, and I proceeded to panic all through dinner and our evening and morning prep. Saturday night I was so distraught I called (race crush speed goddess) Ellen and she talked me through some visualization exercises that were incredibly calming. At one point she said that often our minds and not our bodies are what limit us. So true. I fell asleep Saturday practicing the visualization and kept it up in all morning Sunday, even during the swim. I really did feel calmer than I thought possible once I mounted the bike.

I hit the course and headed for the incline of my nightmares, and guess what? Diana and I had walked the wrong hill!! Yes it was steep, but it was not the soul and quad-crusher we’d hiked the afternoon before. Once at the top I looked around and had one of happiest moments I’ve ever experienced in a race of any kind. From there I thought, I’ve totally got this. Diana had done this race once before and told me after the first hill the bike was mostly flat!

Diana lied.

Even after I gave her those shot blocks.

The bike was definitely not flat, the hills rolled all the way through the out and back. None were too steep, but they were LONG. I saw multiple people stall and have to walk half way up a couple. Despite my previous fear, hills are actually kinda my jam. Being miniature, I’ve got a lot less mass than most people to haul up. Plus I teach a lot of heavy resistance in spin, and I think I’m pretty strong when it comes to climbing. So while my time wasn’t that great over all and nowhere near a PR (1:28, just under 17 mph, meh) I did spend a lot of the race passing people uphill. (Many passed me right back on the downhill, but I still felt high on myself. [High-get it? Like because I was on top of a hill???])

My only complaint about the bike was that there were a few spots that got really narrow and it became harder to pass people. And at one point a photographer’s motorcycle crept slowly right alongside me as I tried to pass a big clump of people on a long stretch of incline. He blocked my way about half a mile (and really pissed me off) and I’d like to think this held my pace back some. Then again, during the second half of the ride after the turn around,  I realized several times that I’d basically stopped trying and was enjoying the scenery a little too much to be competetive. So really I recognize that the slow pace was (almost) all my own doing.

Oh! No! One more complaint about the bike: the turn-around was in fact a tad shy of the halfway mark, because right at the end the course designers threw in a little mindfuck of a switchback at the bottom of a hill. After a pretty legit decline they forced everyone to almost a halt for a tight u-turn and then immediately back that same hill, but without benefit of momentum. Thanks for that guys. I take back what I said about the slow pace being my own fault. I am absolved.

As always, dismounting and entering transition to hit the run was a great feeling. Running I love. Always. I’m good at it and not scared of it. And no matter what it’s enjoyable and feels great.

In related knews, remember that murder-hill that I thought was the start of the bike course but then wasn’t? Yeah, it was the start of the run course. HAHA COURSE DESIGNERS YOU ARE THE FUNNIEST EVER!!!

I waddled into the run at 8:57am according to my sometimes-accurate heartrate monitor. It is at least accurate enough to measure time between mile markers, so when I hit the mile 1 sign at 9:04am I was pretty amped. I was feeling strong, but even that early in the morning the sun was already scorching, and in the shadeless the spots through Central Park it was almost unbearable. I think it’s the hottest I’ve ever been in a race. Add to that the Park’s merciless hills and the run was more than a little torturous.

But it was a great place to run with lots of spectators and people just out for their regular weekend runs shouting nonstop encouragement. The race volunteers and coordinators also did a great job making sure there was sufficient water and nutrition on the course. A few volunteers even found hoses and sprinklers and redirected them at the runners for several moments of refreshing repreive along the route. (At one  point I did wonder if that water was being piped straight from my dirty friend the Hudson…)

Diana pointed out that a major mental challenge of running through Central Park was knowing exactly where the hills were coming. That was so true, the whole first 5k I was thinking about the mile long hill at the park’s north end. That bad boy hit my heart rate and turnover hard, and guarenteed me a positive split for the run. I usually build speed as I go and split negatively, but that was certainly not the case this time around. I averaged 7:40 the first half and 7:55 the second. It would have been great to drop the speed to around 7:30 for the last three miles but considering the equatorial moment NYC was having, I’m pretty damn happy with my run performance.

After finishing (with 2:54 total time), I stripped down to my sports bra and put ice cubes in strategic places to try to cool down. At some point after I finished, organizers chopped the run to 1.2 miles because of the heat. (I told you they were all about safety!)

Once we’d had our fill of ice water and mango popsicles, Diana and I took advantage of the free pedi-cabs back to transition. Her husband (who had bravely made the danger-filled trip from Connecticut to midtown) became my hero when he took most of our gear in a car-cab to the hotel so we could quickly coast back on our bikes unencumbered. (Thankfully it was mostly downhill.) My bike confidence is definitely improved: a month or so ago I would never have biked through NYC traffic!

At the hotel we showered and packed and parted ways for brunch. Hers was boozy because of how Connecticut is really close to NYC, mine was caffeine-y because of that whole driving home to DC thing. I got to eat pork buns, chicken, waffles, grits, and shrimps, (not even kidding) and see some besties at Ma Peche before heading back to the Deece.

The drive home was ok. It was about five and a half hours, which is not terrible for that trip. At one point an arm of my bike rack came loose and Koopa started rocking back and forth absolutely scaring the shit out of me. This of course happened at a point where several highways merged and there was absolutely nowhere to pull off or even over. Much to the chagrin of many angry Maryland and Delaware weekenders, I slowed way down and yelled fuckfuckfuckfuck for about ten miles until I could get to the Maryland welcome center and readjust things. The remaining two hours home I drove in a cold sweat with my eyes splitting time between the road in front of me and the rearview. I think I may be investing in a new bike rack before Augusta 70.3…

Next up on the race calendar is Nation’s (Olympic) Tri September 13th. It will hopefully be cooler and is not nearly as hilly, so hopefully I’ll post faster times for everything (including transitions, excluding the swim [assuming there is a swim]). Already thinking about entering the NYC Tri lottery for 2016!

Two months late. So embarrassing, I know. But, wedding. So there.

You would think my Kinetic Spring race report would be short because, well, I didn’t do it. But you’d be wrong! So without further ado, here is an excessively long and late post about a triathlon I did not do.

I bailed three days before the race. And you know what? It felt great. The decision to do so was fraught, and pitted my self-imposed cycle (cycle!) of guilt against my desire to walk down the aisle unassisted by crutches or airboots in my sexy blue Manolos.

Since Nation’s (olympic tri) in early September, I had been on my bike a grand total of no times. That’s not to say I was behind on my cycling fitness. To the contrary, thanks to the impending wedding and dual pressures of vanity and attendant financial broke-ness, I was teaching up to ten classes a week of mostly spin. And throughout the very snowy (by DC standards) 2014/15 winter, I made time to deafen my fiancé, dog, and neighbors with rides on my trainer.

The problem was, is, and continues to be my fear and failure to build up my handling skills on my actual tri bike. (OK and swimming. The problem will probably always be swimming. [Wait, should I just be a runner?])

Without making excuses (I swear) the precipitation of this winter meant riding outside was not going to happen. It didn’t stop snowing and icing (yielding salty [read: bad-for-your-bike] roads) until March. And by March wedding obligations (my own and to others) took over the calendar. I wrote this original piece (that I’m just now publishing) from a plane after a weekend divided between a baby shower and meeting with my caterer and (one of my) planner(s) the weekend after Kinetic. The weekend before the race was my (out-of-town) bachelorette. The weekend before that, my shower/Scott’s bachelor party. The weekend before that, a friend’s out of town wedding. The weekend before that, the Cherry Blossom 10 (9.5) Miler. The weekend before that, a friend’s out of town wedding (in which Scott was a groomsman). And so on. And getting out on the road on a weekday is just not a possibility with my real world job and teaching schedule.

So as Kinetic approached and my time slipped away, I became anxious and unhappy about the race. And racing is way too expensive and time-consuming to be something that causes unhappiness. And I’m trying to learn from my crash and other injuries to not force things when the time is not right. It’s not worth the risk. So the Thursday before the Sunday race, I pushed past my guilt and decided I would watch from the sidelines.

That sidelines thing was at a minimum required. I’d volunteered to be the DC Tri Club race lead for the sprint, and I’d convinced Chris [see Rock N Roll USA Half Race Report for more on Chris] to do his first tri. I had to show up.

So on Sunday, May 10 at 5am, my race crush, and elite triathlete (omg she’s so fast and so cool,) Ellen and I (and Birkin!) loaded up Yoshi and made the around two hour trek to Lake Anna, VA from DC.

The night before I had indulged in a pre-race carb-load with Chris and speed demon, Mike (the fireman/EMT with whom I was riding when I crashed) despite the fact that the following day, I would be doing no strenuous activity requiring such a meal. Then I purchased lots of good post-race nutrition (tons of water, chocolate milk, pretzels, bananas, and more) for my DC Tri Clubbers. Once at the race, Ellen and I took several trips to unload all this nutrition, while the people who didn’t bail on the race wiggled into their wetsuits and engaged in pre-race, nervous rituals.

I was soooo happy not to be racing at that point. Whether novice or elite, pre-swim triathletes radiate a palpable nervous energy. I on the other hand was able to just focus on how excited I was for Chris to be taking on his first tri. He and Mike are friends of Scott, and I’ve gotten close to them through our mutual love for tris and road races. They’ve been really fun and supportive and welcoming as hell since I’ve known them, so I was pumped that Chris had (succumbed to our berating and) signed up.

And I was pumped that he’d gotten such a perfect day for it. It was a little warmer than most would have liked, but not too bad, and the water was (what I consider) a perfect 74 degrees. (Warm enough to make many question and ditch their wetsuits.)

Kinetic is a beach start, Chris went out with the novices in the second to last wave while Mike, and another friend, Ben, went in an early wave as 30-34 males. I find beach starts to be the least scary way to enter the swim leg, but Chris still had the classic first time tri experience of hitting the water and immediately regretting that he had ever signed up. He stuck it out of course, and from what I could see the waves were well spaced and the lake is just a beautiful place to swim.

As Chris ran up the chute to transition, Ellen, Birkin, and I ran up to a point a couple hundred meters into the bike. The bike and run legs at Kinetic start up a pretty legit hill. It can be an intimidating way to start, but the good news is you really do get the hardest part over with early on, when your legs are as fresh as they’re likely to be.

After Chris cranked past us we stayed put. It’s a big loop course, so we had a good view of folks both heading out and returning. Everything was going smoothly until cyclists started coming back in.  The race takes place in a state park, and the transition and finish line area are all conveniently located next to a big parking lot. And obviously the bike course takes place on roads, roads that are also used by cars. Before the race starts, organizers close the mile or so of this car road that leads into the parking lot as this is where the cyclists begin and end their rides.

And yet, no fewer than three idiot (car) drivers managed to come hauling down this supposedly closed stretch of asphalt. And as they did so, each one also managed to nearly take out cyclists, then stop abruptly so that racers had to also slam on their brakes and try to get around the uninvited vehicles.

Spectators and volunteers (myself obviously and strongly included) screamed at the cars to get out of the way and watch out. A couple of the drivers became irate with us, some tried to turn down the run course and take out racers on foot, one pulled sort of to the side and tried to abandon her car. Basically, it was a disaster. I don’t know how the race “organizers” let it happen (and repeatedly) but they are lucky as hell no one was actually struck. A few cyclists definitely lost time (or I guess added it) leaving me wondering if any of them missed PR-ing or podium-ing because of the (actual) traffic jam.

I’m pretty sure this wasn’t an issue last year. (At least I didn’t see anything like it last year, and clearly my experience represents the universally-agreed-upon truth of how things transpired.) Parenthetical joking aside, this was an epic fuck up and I will be considering it when I decide whether to ever register for this race again.

The rest of the day was not nearly so eventful. Though I did (get to) yell at a preteen who, when I wasn’t looking and without asking, jumped on an unsuspecting, slumbering Birkin. He’s a giant-but-shy shelter dog, and doesn’t even like ear scratches from strangers, so when I turned around to find a child (of advanced enough age she should have known better [as should her parents who were standing right there]) draped across my timid and panting and clearly-terrified pup, I let loose.

But really other than that the rest of the day at Lake Anna went well. Chris did great and was insta-hooked. (He’s training for Nations now and has become obsessed with [solidcore] too! I wonder how that happened…)

The only time I regretted not racing was when I saw the medals. And also when Chris and Mike got pizza. But, I did still get my sweet swag socks, and more importantly I got to walk down the aisle 3 weeks later unscathed in my strappy stilettoes.

First, full disclosure: The perennial ten-mile race was rerouted into 9.5, thanks to a crime scene investigation between miles 4 and 6. So please do not credit me with having run 10 miles today. MapMyRun credits me 9.6. That extra .4 might have been the death of me.

Back to our regularly-scheduled blogging.

The Cherry Blossom 10 Miler may be DC’s favorite race. With good reason. I’ve lived in DC going on eight years, and I still think running on the Mall and around Hains Point is absolute magic. And this time of year is so gorgeous – even the thousands of oblivious tourists (this year with selfie sticks!) cannot ruin the perfection of cherry blossom season.

Spring is even sweeter this year after a brutal winter that seemed like it would never end. The sun is finally out and today was perfect running weather. The morning started off chilly, especially because, like always, I insisted on getting to the starting area pre-sunrise for maximum porta potty access. Just like with Rock N Roll, I managed to hit the johns two times before heading to the corral! (More on that later. No really.) I waited till the last minute to give up my sweatshirt and check my bag to stave off the cold as long as possible.

In a final bulwark against the otherwise-inevitable morning chill, Scott and I did a very short run warm up around the Monument before heading to our corral. Once there, I ditched the ratty towel I’d been cocooning in and let the heat coming off my fellow racers keep the shivers at bay. (Gross? Whatever.) One of those fellow runners happened to be my crazy fast friend Lisa who is doing Boston next week. She’s awesome and inspiringly speedy.

We were in corral two – or the red wave – a major improvement over the first and only other time I did the Cherry Blossom, back in 2013. That year, despite having entered a projected finish time somewhere around 85 minutes, race organizers mistakenly placed me in the last corral. Pretty much the walker corral. I upgraded myself a few corrals that day, but not far enough, and spent the first half of that race throwing elbows to get to a reasonable pace group.

Today’s race was better in that regard – but still very crowded in the beginning. Cherry Blossom would definitely benefit from more corrals and a more protracted  start. Close to 20,000 people competed in the race, but there were only 6 waves, each home to runners of widely varying paces. Lisa, Scott, and I were towards the front of the second corral, crossing the start sensors 3:36 after the gun, and all three of us had to battle a motley of biped obstacles who were either overly ambitious or straight-up duplicitous when they predicted their finish times. It was especially bad over Memorial Bridge and back, the crowds and wave jumpers who inevitably hog the inside path probably added 30 seconds onto those miles.

With my white people problems out of the way now, I can overall call today a success. It was a perfect day, and I ran faster and stronger than I had any business doing based on the weeks since Rock N Roll USA and some apparently-questionable pre-race dining.

I’ve run a total of 23 miles since RnR just over a month ago. About a  week after that race I started getting the pre-stress fracture pain  I know so well climbing up my right shin. (Not the leg I usually splinter! Hurray for new experiences!) So I took a full week off my feet, and since then I’ve only done the mile each way to SolidCore a couple times a week.

Speaking of SolidCore, I took the week before RnR off from my favorite class; not so this time! I let those nihilists do their damnedest all week. On top of those hours of self-inflicted (expensive!) torture, rather than find a sub for my Saturday spin class yesterday, I agreed to sub a second class. My legs really thanked me for that double whammy. Miraculously though, they really felt ok today.

My insides however, did not. Not sure what we ate that made both our bellies so unhappy, but Scott and I were both hurting today. He says I’m the food poisoning equivalent of the canary in the coal mine, because any time a meal turns on me and the people I’m with, I’m the first to go down. It happened to six of my friends and I in Mexico a few years ago (remember, Kim?!) when a bad beach meal took me out of vacay mode a full 12 hours before it felled any other travelers. True to form, when the alarm went off at 5 this morning, I immediately knew something was wrong. Scott took Birk out while I hit snooze praying the sick would pass. It didn’t. I ended up pre-race fueling with ginger ale and saltines. Once at the race (we ubered)…well, I promised I’d bring those porta potty visits (plural) back into the convo, didn’t I? So necessary today.

My stomach mostly settled long enough to run and get to brunch. By the finish line though, last night’s dinner was seeking its revenge on Scott.  After some more QPPT (quality-porta potty time) we thought we were through the woods, so we slowly waddled the two miles back to our hood and found a spot that was already open at 9:45 for brunch. Things got bad again for Scott then, and went from bad to worse on our walk home. Once home, things got bad for me too. After we each showered and then spent a couple hours tagging out of the bathroom and wishing we lived in a city where we could afford 2 toilets, we decided we had to brave the outdoors: Birkin had to pee and we were out of ginger ale.

I’ll just stop there. Suffice it to say, it’s been a rough afternoon. (But at least Game of Thrones!)

Back to the race, I ended up with a 1:12:51. But since that was over 9.5 rather than 10 miles I’ll defer to MapMyRun which had me at a 7:37 min/mile pace. The last few miles my left knee started seizing up (again, yay new experiences?!) and I was starting to fade. Sometime after the mile 8 marker, Lisa came bounding up from behind me, and it gave me the motivation I needed to keep it quick to the end. I picked up the pace so I could stay just a behind her. She’s so fast, so to be finishing anywhere near her (even when she was taking it easy on a pre-Boston taper) was exciting and almost enough to ignore my knee (ignoring training injuries is sorta my thing) and to pardon the race coordinators for placing the finishing line up a hill. At least it really is great to finish a race and have the legs feel totally spent. Who knows if I could have handled the full 10?  (The knee is still not happy with me, so I’m rocking a sweet ice pack now. We’ll see how spin goes tomorrow!)

One last white lady gripe before I sign off: you have to pay extra to get a Cherry Blossom medal. I ended up spending a boatload on this race because I upgraded my shirt to a performance T (between sleeping naked and being incredibly vain, what use have I for a shapeless cotton T-shirt?) and I paid for the medal. Because I’m pretty sure it doesn’t count otherwise. Like, Scott might not have actually run a 10 (9.5) mile race today. He definitely had an unpleasantly intimate morning with several porta potties, but I don’t think he actually ran a race.

Next up: Tri season! Kinetic Sprint on May 10th. I’ve swam twice now since 2014, so I think I’m ready.

 

 

In a word, wet.

After writing last week about the trials and rewards of bad-weather running, the Rock N Roll USA half (and full if you’re crazy) marathon made me put my shot blocks where my mouth is by showering us with hell-water all morning.

I packed plenty of dry and warm clothes into my gear check bag (including three of the six new pairs of socks I inexplicably bought at the race expo) and layered up in my race clothes, a Delta  blanket (I hoard them when I fly for disposable start line warmth) and a trash bag. In the crap weather I ubered rather than walked to the start area, which meant I got there around 6:20 for a 7:30 start – enough time to use the porta potties before and after (twice! yes!) checking my dry clothes before heading to my corral.

I was in corral 5 out of 30 something and I was early enough to get to the very front and center right behind the line for corral 4. I was aiming for 1:45 and the 1:45 pace group was right in front of me with their big yellow sign. Empty bladder and goal, literally, in sight; I felt well-positioned at least for the beginning of the race. Once the anthem was sung  I ditched my Delta blankie and shredded my hefty bag, praying for a prompt start as the rain was picking up and the trash bag had been surprisingly cozy.

The race started right on time at 7:30 and I was mercifully over the start line before 7:34. (Friends in later corrals had to wait forty minutes to start, I can’t imagine how soggy and freezing they must have been.) It’s a big popular race, so even being in the front, the first mile or two are slow as the crowd thins. My first mile was my slowest – even slower than mile 7 and the Rock Creek/Calvert St hill that drags down everyone’s legs and splits.

I tried for the first few miles to avoid the deepening puddles. (This was truly an education in how pock-marked the streets of DC are.) Eventually I gave up as it rained harder, the water became too wide for my little midget legs (and for the increased turnover I’ve been working on) and as other runners’ splash back soaks everything from the knee down anyway. I must say, I dressed right at least, and the Swiftwick socks I’d picked up the night before held up admirably. That lightweight Nike rain coat I’d only worn maybe twice previously was perfect and temperature-wise I was comfortable and it really did keep the rain at bay. I also rocked my Augusta 70.3 cap which kept the rain out of my eyes and I think kept me me in the dark on how hard it was really raining. Also crucial, I bought a waterproof sleeve for my phone/music at the Expo and it worked great. Between the hat and the jams, I was able to block out most of the misery and actually enjoy the race. (I also managed to block out my fiancé and dog who were waiting just past that monster hill to cheer me on. I didn’t end up seeing them or anyone I knew the whole run.)

And as for the running itself: it was great! I don’t know if it was wanting to get out of the rain, or the two rest days this week, or Elle King’s new album, but I was faster than I could have hoped based on the last few weeks. Halfway through mile two, as the crowd spaced out, I was feeling strong and decided to run past the 1:45 pace group. I figured it was better to be ahead of them and then if I had to I could slow down and rejoin. But I never had to slow down. I felt stronger and faster as I went and ended up with a really nice negative split. My slowest mile was that first mile at 8:05. My fastest was mile 11 (full disclosure: mile 11 packs some sweet downhill action) at 6:42. In between I held steady according to my GPS at a 7:30 average, and according to competitor.com,  at 7:45. As I crossed the finish line at 1:45:18 I knew I’d blown past my goal. The official time was 1:41:24. I was so happy. Well, as happy as someone can be standing in a growing downpour as their internal temperature drops and the previous three soggy hours catch up with them…

I got my medal and chocolate milk, and the space blanket I’d never needed so badly after a race, and made my way to gear check. And that’s when things began to unravel.

The longest part of race day had nothing to do with the 13.1 (13.54 if you ask my GPS) mile run around DC. It was getting from the finish area to the metro , and the hour plus trip home/to brunch. (I like to think of fried chicken and waffles as home really.)

Being at the end of the alphabet is a gift that begins its giving season in elementary school, and apparently never stops. (And no I don’t have a complex about it now or anything.) Just as it had been that morning, the UPS truck housing the W names’ gear was the furthest away. I shuffled through the crater-saturated RFK parking lot and got in a short line. As I got to the front and gave them my number, race “organizers” decided the truck needed to move and made me (and the line forming impatiently behind me) shiver in the crescendo-ing deluge as they moved the truck all of 10 feet to the left (10 feet even further away) so they could squeeze another truck in. Because they’d effed up the truck order. Because the alphabet is hard.

I was too cold to argue but a riot nearly broke out behind me. Finally,  I got my bag and (temporarily) dry clothes. Those extra stagnant minutes really did soak me to the bone in a way I didn’t recover from until we got to brunch. There was no indoor cover anywhere in the finishing area – even the porta potties were forever away, so I joined the growing tent city under an overpass at the back of the parking lot and changed.

Well, I didn’t change, its was too cold and too public to remove any of the wet layers so I just pulled dry tights and a sweatshirt over the wet tights and tank top. I changed my socks but then had to bury my feet back into wet shoes so what was the point. (If I could have done one thing differently I would have brought a change of shoes!) I re-cocooned into my space blanket and texted Chris to let me know when he finished. I slowly headed in the direction of the finishing shoot but tried to stay under the overpass. On the way I met a troll who asked me three questi-no wait, I actually made friends with some water-logged strangers and fan-girled at a guy with an Ironman Lake Tahoe backpack. Finally I headed back into the rain and the universe smiled for just a brief moment on me: I ran smack into Chris. Who didn’t recognize his drowned rat friend at first. Then…we got to go back to gear check to get his stuff!

At least he’s an O and not a W so it was only half the distance back. Once there and with his bag in hand, he forewent the formalities and changed right next to the truck. He got some looks dropping trou there in the rain but I was grateful he was quick. Once Chris was in his (temporarily) dry clothes he wrapped himself up in his space blanket and we got our bearings.

The bad weather had driven the usual finishing area crowd away. There were almost no friends and family spectators milling around and runners were not hanging around once they’d finished. So the parking lot was practically empty. In that grey empty space, the massive distance between ourselves and the not-even-visible metro was wildly discouraging. We had to go all the way through the parking lot to RFK Stadium, around the stadium and then around the Stadium Armory, then down another block to get into the metro station. I’d already been done with the race freezing in the rain for a half hour, and now we had a sore, frigid march through the rising puddle waters before we even got on the train.

It took ages, my muscles were locking up because the cold had kept me from properly stretching, so I barely picked up my feet as we moped along. Stepping on and off curbs was agony. Finally we got there and descended into the station to find that it was absolutely swarming with cold, wet, desperate runners. Annnnnd, I realized I’d forgotten my Smart Trip. So I had to borrow cash from Chris and get in line with the race tourists for a fare card. Once I had my ticket we headed down to the platform that was so crowded it was actually scary. It took ten minutes for a train to come by because, ya know, why would WMATA run extra trains on a day it knows there will be 38,000 extra people all crowding into one otherwise-not-populous station.

Chris and I missed the first train that came by because I refused to get pushy with people that close to the edge of the platform. We got on the second train that came through, which seemed much better anyway because we were able to get seats. Maybe 50 feet after pulling away, the train stopped. And sat. And sat. Fifteen minutes crept by before we moved; one of the longer stops between stations I’ve experienced in almost eight years here.

I used the stop to change my socks again. And decided to leave the shoes off until I absolutely had to put them back on. The conductor came on the PA and explained that the train ahead of us had to offload. My guess was it had something to do with the thousands of pushy tourists who’d packed in till it could barely close its doors. Great. I also used the down time to finally knock back that chocolate milk. And half a bag of potato chips. (They were baked so, health food.) My fingers had been too numb to open and drink the milk till then. And while I’m usually respectful of the DC Metro’s no food policy, I wasn’t feeling too warm and fuzzy toward the system at that point.

Finally we got moving and eventually made it to our transfer point, only to find trains were only running as far as Mt. Vernon – two stops shy of where we needed to go. Instead we trained to Chinatown, where I discovered my fare card had gotten too soggy in my pocket to fit through the exit machine; so I had to ask a Metro employee whose practiced rudeness and ineptitude were so strong I found myself questioning how I’d found my way into this DMV location. From there we cabbed to the restaurant where Scott had been holding down the fort alone for a half hour because our other friends had equally terrible (or worse) times getting back from the finishing area too. (Apparently the gear check trucks became increasingly chaotic as the morning wore on and we really did miss a near riot in the W line.)

Scott had brought me warm dry clothes – he’d kindly packed half my closet into a small backpack, including my uggs! I don’t care who judges, my feet had been wet for five hours and were so happy to meet that cozy shearling lining. I spent some me-time underneath the hand drier in the bathroom, and cobbled together a weird-but-warm outfit from the clothes Scott had brought. Once we had fresh and dry clothes it was fried chicken and waffles all around!