The Cherry Blossom Ten Miler is a wildly popular lottery race, arguably because it is usually such a beautiful and pleasant time of year to run around the National Mall. This year’s Cherry Blossom was not the idyllic sunny sojourn for ten miles under suspended wreaths of pinks and blues. It was not a joyfilled jaunt around the National Mall past breathtaking views of the Tidal Basin and monuments. No the only thing breathtaking were the 60 mph gusts that smashed into you full bore so hard they knocked the wind right out of you.
On top of the predicted wind and 40 degree temps on what should have been a beautiful April day, the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler was far from an A or even B race – hardly even a C race. It’s just generally such a beautiful day I couldn’t help but enter the lottery back in the fall. Where the Rock ‘n’ Roll Half was also meant as just a training day with ya know, course support and better hydration, this one at only ten miles and a few weeks closer to Mountains to Beach marathon was meant to be the same plus the extra miles on my own I was going to have to supplement.
I needed to do six in addition to the race’s prescribed ten, and I knew without hemming and hawing much over it that I’d prefer to get them done before the race so that I could enjoy the finish line festivities and free food. As March closed out and April arrived, a funny thing happened (not funny haha, more like funny fuck you) and winter refused to leave. As the predicted temperature for April 3rd looked worse and worse, I questioned the wisdom of a predawn, pre-race 10k. But I’d mentally already committed to that schedule of events so that remained the plan. And not getting the miles in that day was out of the question as I recently began working with a coach and he’d already uploaded the workout into Training Peaks. (More on how finally having a coach and a real training plan and support and has opened my eyes to everything I’ve been doing wrong for years another day!)
By the time I hit the race expo on Saturday, weather predictions were in the 30s and 40s with sustained winds of 30mph and 60mph gusts. Participants and organizers were beginning to get a little antsy. Still the expo was fun; I bought new clothes, gear and shotblocks I did not need, and, most importantly, got to see and meet Meb!
Maybe a month before race day organizers sent an email with the exciting news that Meb would be running his first Cherry Blossom Ten as part of his Rio 26.2 training. In keeping with his well-known generous character, he did a number of talks, Q&As, and photo ops at the expo. Hearing him speaking about 18 hours before I knew we’d be running against some unseasonably unpleasant race conditions was a great psychological boost. It’s hard to throw yourself a pity party in the face of Meb’s family story and his years of perseverance. (Hard but not impossible; I still fit plenty of groaning and woe-is-me’ing in those 18 hours. Just ask Scott!) After he spoke, I was able to speak with Meb, get some pictures, and got him to sign my race number. I apologized for DC’s blustery and frigid welcome and admittedly mulled whether I could start with the six minute mile crew to pace him – even if only for a few minutes! (In the end I opted to stick with reality and my regularly-assigned corral.)
While in line to meet Meb I also got to meet a fellow DC runner and triathlete with whom I’ve shared Insta pics and emails for some time. She posts as @livefreeandrun and is a totally committed and badass athlete. She always sends me encouragement and when I hate my 5am alarm, sometimes I’ll take a peak at her account because I just know she’s already out there pounding the twilight pavement. Getting a real-life hug in from a virtual friend and runspiration was awesome. I’m reminded at least weekly that community is probably the best part of this crazy endurance sport ride.
I ran into a few other run/tri friends at the expo before cutting my spending off and heading home. I had to get a long swim in that afternoon before my early-bird pasta binge. (Of the many having-a-coach-who-knows-what-
After swimming all the laps and dinner, I had to finally really contend with what the eff I was going to wear to be comfortable during two likely-to-be-miserable runs. I was concerned with the cold temps and wind of course, but I was mostly worried about the downtime between runs. I didn’t want to become too uncomfortable or worse, to let my core body temp get dangerously low while waiting for the actual race to start.
The gun would go off at 7:30am for Meb and the elites, and I was in the first corral, so we were estimated to cross the start line within two or three minutes after that. My plan for the morning, working backwards from a 7:32 start, was to be out the door and running at 6am. My coach wanted me to take those first six miles at a slow pace – about a minute slower than marathon race pace. My goal was to do around 8:45s and be done around 6:50, ending that run near the start line. Then I would get immediately in a porta potty line and from there head to my corral.
I knew that forty minutes between finishing the first leg and starting the race were potentially dangerous. It’d be cold of course, and I’d be sweaty and down calories. But I also knew That I have a tendency to overdress for runs, underestimating how much my core body temp will climb once I get going. (Like most small females I am in a constant state of icicle and I live in constant fear of being painfully cold. [As I write this I am ironically on the warmest airplane I’ve ever been on and have been stripping layers since we left Salt Lake City. By the time we land in DC I may be in handcuffs. And not much more.])
I finally decided on long tights (but not my fleece-lined Nikes), a Marine Corps Marathon mock turtleneck (yes fleece-lined) over a black tank, and topped off with a light zip-up Nike windbreaker. If that sounds like too many layers to you, then maybe I should be consulting with you on my next race outfit. I figured I could wear that whole ensemble for the front 6 miles as they would be done in the dark and slow. Then I could tie the the MCM turtleneck around my waist before the race started. I went to bed thinking I had a plan.
I got up around 5:30 and was out the door maybe 5 after 6, so pretty much right on target. I zigzagged down to the Mall and kept my pace around where I wanted it. The headwind I faced most of the way down helped in this arena. I was a little warm towards the end, but generally pretty comfortable the whole time, so I started thinking, maybe I should keep the turtleneck on during the race.
I got to the Mall a little before 7am and got straight on line for the porta johns. As I waited, I reached into the windbreaker pocket where I’d stashed my phone, ID, debit card, cash, and Metro smart trip. The only thing still there was my phone. My heart stopped. I’d been leaving a bread crumb trail of money and personal effects for 10k around the city. I got out of line and retraced my steps about a block but didn’t find any of my missing cards. (I knew the cash was long gone.) In what will sound like a commercial (I swear I’m not sponsored…though I’m open to such an arrangement) I was able to get online while (back) on line at the portas and cancel the debit card before it was even my turn. I was relieved as I relieved myself (ok I’l stop) that at least someone wouldn’t be out shopping on me over the next 80 some minutes of running.
From the bathroom I headed to the corrals, by which I really mean the disorganized paddocks of freezing runners who had ceased to care about what color their bibs were. About 12 hours before the race, organizers sent out a pretty doomsday-esq email basically shitting their pants over the wind situation. They informed all runners that given the predicted gustage, there would be no on-course signage – no mile markers or clocks – fewer drink and nutrition stations, and no finish line festivities. (So really I could have just run the extra 10k after Cherry Blossom but ah well.) They went so far as to ask everyone to pick up their food and medals and then go straight home after the race.
In addition to scrapping mile timing markers, and finish line festivities, race organizers apparently had given up enforcing corral assignments. There were no signs denoting coral colors, I couldn’t see any pace group pennants, I squeezed into the shivering mass of mis-matched bib numbers as close to the start line as I could.
By this time the heat from my first run had warn off and the cold was easily whipping through my tights and jacket and turtle neck and tank top and freezing the layer of sweat I’d worked up to the (too) many layers of clothing.
My teeth had begun chattering as I shimmied through the crowd trying to get off the periphery into the warmer center throng. The chattering was totally involuntary and becoming violent – I tried to take deep breaths and will my jaw to stop vibrating, fearing I would chip a tooth. I was thinking I should take my turtle neck layer off before the gun goes off, but in my frozen condition I could not imagine giving up my warmest piece of clothing. Instead I leaned into the crowd – as much as possible without being inappropriately intimate – and ducked lower every time the wind picked up. Using the tall and average-height [read: over 5 foot] runners as a wind-shield was one of the only times being itty has been an advantage in this sport.
In the melee I had no idea what corral I was in, but as the gun went off – seemingly without any warning – the wall of body heat around me began shuffling forward. Fortunately I’d managed to get into the correct, first corral. Unfortunately, most of the people around me were well ahead of their assigned spot, and as we unceremoniously shivered over the start line, I waited for the pace to pick up, only to find everyone stayed slow and shuffling. Glancing at the numbers on the bibs around me I realized most of them corresponded with 9+ min miles. I saw a few fellow red bibbers, all looking very irritated – some throwing bows and weaving awkwardly around the edges of the crowd to get ahead.
I latched onto a young woman whose number was close to my own and who was admirably efficient at staking a path forward. I followed her through the jogging hordes, and at places she actually fell back and followed me. It took three miles to find some breathing (running) room.
Miles of bobbing and weaving while being whipped by 40 mph winds was a major waste of time and energy, and I really wish race organizers and volunteers hadn’t completely thrown their hands up at the corral system in the face of bad weather. I understand the safety-conscious decision to remove mile markers and things that could become airborne missiles at the hands of a strong gust, but I don’t understand why they would decide to let their hard work of dividing people by pace go by the wayside. I have so much respect for folks hoofing it slower than me – their dedication and willingness to run for more hours blows me away, and they probably enjoy this sport for purer reasons than I – but it is still hard to not be very aggravated when hundreds of people corral jump netting me 3 miles that were slower and colder miles than they should have been (and obviously an overall slower time).
Moving on.
Once I finally broke free and started to pick up speed, I pretty much immediately regretted not having the eggs to ditch the turtleneck before we got going. I quickly overeheated and knew I had to strip, and sooner rather than after a muscling through a few more uncomfortable miles. Somewhere in mile 4 I ducked onto the curb and shed clothes as fast as I could…which wasn’t very fast. I had to get my iPhone out of my pocket first, and then lose my outer shell windbreaker before stripping the turtleneck. Then I had to get the windbreaker zipped back on, reattach my music, and tie my turtleneck around my waist in such a way that would be comfortable and not block my number. (I momentarily considered just ditching it as I have a couple, but I knew I’d need it again a few feet after the finish line.)
All told this pitstop set me back almost two full minutes. Just when I’d picked up steam my time dropped way down. And hundreds of the people I’d just worked so hard to pass had gotten in front of me again.
Heading back into the racing throng was psychologically brutal. I recognized the backs of people I had already had to swerve around. It was a terrible type of dejavu. And it coincided with a stretch where the wind became comprised of mini cyclones. I’d never felt anything like it while running: instead of a tailwind (wishful thinking) or a headwind (wait for it, wait for it) the wind just whipped around in all directions, creating the sensation that I was running in the middle of my own personal twister. I talked to others after the race who echoed my experience. We all agreed we were not fans.
As we headed into miles 5 through 8 we made our way to Hains Point and the stretch I had most dreaded given the wind predictions. HP is windy when the rest of DC is calm. I was particularly anxious for miles 7 and 8 – generally this southwest portion of the Point is the worst. In mentally preparing I assured myself that at least once we turned the corner and headed back north things would improve in the final stretch.
I predicted and mentally prepared wrong. So wrong.
Running south into mile 7 I was pleasantly surprised that the wind didn’t seem any worse than usual. I was even laying down 7:20s and 7:30s and feeling like, if this is as bad as the wind gets, I can totally hold this pace the whole way home!
Then, just midway through our 8th mile we rounded the Point, and my backpatting turned into flagellating. The headwind crashed into us so hard it knocked the wind out of me. It was that feeling like if you put your head out the window of a moving car – where the air is coming at you so fast you can’t actually inhale or exhale any of it. (Ok, is that a weird simile? Have other people done that? If you don’t know what I’m talking about – ask your dog. She knows.)
Those last 2 and change miles hurt. I gave up on my mid 7s and settled into low 8s and prayed to hold on. The last quarter or half mile exits HP thankfully, and then heads mercilessly uphill to the finish line. My 8s gave ways to 8:15s and people started passing me as I struggled to keep picking up my feet. As I questioned what my problem was, I had to remind myself that this wasn’t mile 10, it was mile 16. This lessened the embarrassment a little – though I’m always convinced the racers around me are judging me, so I wanted to be able to explain to them that I’d done extra and wasn’t as pitiable as I seemed.
Inner (crazy pants) dialogue aside I kept moving forward technically, and every step felt more difficult than the last all the way through the finish line. I didn’t have a heart rate monitor on – if I had it may have exploded. My rate of perceived exertion was cranked up to 11. When I finally crossed the final timers and slowed to a walk, I sincerely feared I was about to throw up. I’ve never puked after a workout; this was the closest I think I’ve ever come to doing so.
A finish line photographer approached and rather than smile I grimaced for the camera. Needless to say I did not end up buying that image (for the low price of $19. So stupid.)
Race organizers kept their promise and there were no festivities to dawdle over, so I collected my water and banana, my medal and thermal blanket and headed north towards home.
As predicted, within 5 minutes my core body temp was back to penguin levels and I had to stop and re-don the turtle neck. I then re-cocooned into the thermal and kept trudging north. I called Scott and gave him my coordinates and route home and he and the dogs (we were dog-sitting that weekend) got in the car to intercept me.
As I plodded up 14th St gusts of angry wind howled at me knocking me a few steps back for every little bit of progress I made. In the 15 or so minutes it took from when I called Scott to his arrival at the mall, I’d only managed to get about two blocks. I was moving so slowly he thought he’d come too far south and must have passed me, but I was really still a half block from where I could see he’d pulled over to call me.
I was so happy to see him I hobble-jogged that half block and yanked open the door of my beloved green Mini, Yoshi. I was met by the glorious sight of Scott and multiple doggy faces. There is truly no better welcome after a tough 10 or 16 miles than puppy (face) kisses. Also, man’s best friend is great for warming a gal up!
I squeezed into the front seat underneath my friends’ black lab, Truman who was our very adorable house (and car) guest for the week. He is an absolute joy and a huge weirdo, so he kept his big wiggly butt on my lap and dropped his front feet to the floor for the ride home. He seemed to be quite happy with this awkward contortion.
When we got home, I extricated myself from the dog butt and snuggled into some sweats on top and bottom. Well first I put on Scott’s sweats which were sitting on the couch, snuggled some more with the dogs, and then finally put my own schlubby clothes on to reface the outside world.
Scott and I walked the couple breezy blocks to Shaw’s Tavern to meet a friend who had also run for brunch. It was maybe 10:30 when we got there – too early for the professional brunch crowd – so we sat right down. When the fancy brunchers started trickling in all dolled up for their bottomless mimosas and bloodies, I had a brief moment of, ‘man I look like a scrub,’ followed by a more elated, ‘man I got a lot done before most of the city even rolled out of bed.’