Oh Everest, My Everest

Official Time: 3:16:47
Average Pace: 15:06

I don't have a lot to say about this, except that it was a bloodbath. By itself, it is a challenge and I fully expected to finish in the neighborhood of three hours since my PR is around 2:43 and my first half was Riley's (what I thought was the hilliest of the hilly races), which I did in 3:02. Trail running is new to me and I have been told time and again to expect a much slower time because of the extra effort it takes to cover the terrain. Granted, I had a pretty easy time of the actual terrain thanks to all those day hikes Michele and Keith took me on in my teenage years, but the constant and rapid elevation change was definitely a killer. Not to mention the single track dirt "path" that made it pretty harsh to pass people who are going slower than you or who decide to start walking when you're not ready to do the same. It seemed like every time I got to the bottom of another hill, I'd have just enough energy to keep jogging up with the same effort I was using on my approach but not enough to go faster than that. This cost me many precious minutes as I'd often get stuck behind some walkers without the necessary juice to pass them.

So, I'd say 15 of those 30 extra minutes above PR were because of the race conditions, most of which I knew about in advance. (Next time, I'll quit thinking it's rude to pass nice ladies who start walking in front of me on a narrow, single-wide trail and make sure to save energy to get past them and stay past them.) The other 15 minutes I attribute to all manner of stupidity.

Bobo move #1: donating blood three days before the race after having spent the last 4 months accidentally losing weight because you haven't had time to eat as much as you used to.

Bobo move #2: going through with your blood donation three days before the race even though your period decided to start in the minutes it took you to make your way over to the building with the blood drive.

Bobo move #3: drinking less water than usual for the entire week preceding the race because your nalgene is smelly and heavy, and you don't want to make your bike commute to school more unpleasant than it has to be.

Bobo move #4: leaving your fuel belt at home and not being able to carry any fluids with you on a race through the woods with less than ample course support.

I guess the bright side is that the race premium was a sweet v-neck, short-sleeve performance shirt that happened to match my kicks. While this experience left a bitter taste in my mouth regarding my ability to perform adequately when I fail to plan properly, it did light a fire under my seat about trail running. I like all the muscles that were sore the next day and I particularly like that I didn't have to spend a single moment inside a gym to make them sore. Me and ol' Fountainhead are going to butt heads a few more times this winter and see if we can't be better friends.

Here are my photos at the two deceptively flat sections of the race:

Labels: blood donation, curse of womanhood, fountainhead, GU, half marathon, mountain trail, race, swollen hands

Chip Time: 2:50:08
Average Pace: 12:59 min/mi

After driving 5 hours to a wedding in PA and then driving 3 hours back to MD to crash at a Holiday Inn late Saturday night, I rose reluctantly at 0500 to run in the Frederick Running Festival very early Sunday morning. Didn't sleep a lick, thanks to my vampire schedule, but I've done it before right? It's like what Shackleton used to say to his men during trying times in their Antarctic adventures: what I've done once, I can do a second time with no problem. (It was a lie when he said it, too.)

At this point, I have an apology for all the women to whom I've not shown proper sympathy during a run. I have experienced running during my special woman time before, and I never understood what was so awful about it. Sure, it was a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to complain as much as those other women seemed to do. I sure learned a lesson this week about the difference between it being your special woman time and the day (or first moments and hours) your special woman time begins. I learned because that special time came about 50 yards after I started the race, and I was not happy about it.

After suffering through two miles, I really thought I wasn't going to finish the race. I just did NOT care about anything except for crawling under a rock in the fetal position until my body decided to go back to normal. A Marine passed and encouraged me on sometime in the next mile, and I still didn't care. Well, that's not true. I cared enough to keep running until he disappeared from sight, but not enough to mentally commit to the rest of the race. I could always stop in a little while. My hands were already starting to swell up because the fluids were not staying in my bloodstream but instead having a party in all the tissue surrounding my reproductive system.

Somehow, though a series of distractions and distortions of my face, I made it to mile 6. It started to feel like a shame not to finish after going that far. I trudged through miles 7, 8 and 9. Around mile 10, the awful cramps of death returned and my swollen hands started to really hurt. I started taking extended walk breaks. By mile 12, I figured the HELL with it. I could just walk the rest of the way.

Then of course a very nice lady came up behind me and asked me to help her run the rest of the way. She said I gave her energy and I pretended I did because she was sure doing a great job of distracting me and she was a very nice lady to talk to! Nearing the fairgrounds, she thanked me and sent me off ahead of her to finish strong. Samwise appeared with some typically aggravating words of motivation shortly afterward. I gave him a kind shove and worked up to a sprint to end my suffering.

In the end, I still averaged a 13:00-min mile. It's slightly astounding to me, but I'm just trying not to think of that day too much. I'm just glad it's over. And now that I am done with my race report, I can officially let my brain bury that memory deep, deep down where I never have to think about it again!

Labels: curse of womanhood, Frederick, half marathon, race, swollen hands

Clock Time: 1:10:03
Chip Time: 1:09:03
Average Pace: 11:10 min/mi

Yesterday was the inaugural Butler Relay, the first in the 2008 MCM event series. I signed up because the MCM folks decided to offer entrants a coveted (non-comp) entry for the Marine Corps Historic Half (which filled up in 13 days). Since I ran the Quantico Half Marathon last September, which turned out to be the last ever Quantico Half Marathon to be hosted on MCB Quantico, I want to be a part of the first ever MCHH in Fredericksburg, which is what happened when MCCS handed the event over to the MCM people.

Now for the race report!

Having been sick for the last two weeks and still sporting a lingering cough, I didn't expect much. I purposely left the Garmin at home so that I could temporarily forget that I hate running. I just wanted to run as fast as I could without throwing up or having to walk. That seemed like a reasonable goal for a 10K (any longer and I may have had the nix the not walking part). But everything always changes once you get there and have a gander at the other people running the race.

At 0730 on a chilly morning outside the gym of a Marine Corps base, the first thing I see is that there are very few people there. In fact, it's almost like a club run, only this club looks way out of my league. It's a club full of active duty Marines and hard core non-Marine runners (as evidenced by their lean, gazelle-like builds). There are also a number of young people there, clearly the offspring of Marines and gazelles starting out their running excellence early in life. All of this is bad news for me because it reduces the number of slow people to keep me company in the back.

At the sound of the gun, I make myself focus on one thing: don't lose the pack. I start to think maybe I might be able to step it out and use their momentum to propel me forward. It's only six miles, right? I can handle feeling like I'm going to puke for six miles. Hell, maybe I even just puke and then keep running until it's over! I can do this. I can do it. Just don't lose the pack.

Within a minute, the pack decides to lose me. Don't lose the pack becomes don't turn around. If I turn around, I'll just see that there's nobody behind me and I'll panic. So, I don't. I don't turn around while I'm trying to stay with what's left of the pack. I struggle to keep up with the women in front of me and look around for the one who seems to be running the steadiest pace, finally settling on the one wearing headphones. She won't mind if I use her to pace me since she's listening to music anyway! Perfect. Wonderful.

I hover about 10 feet behind her for the first couple of miles, cursing myself for picking somebody who is going just a little bit too fast for comfort (and I use the term 'comfort' loosely). As we approach the first water station shortly after mile 2, I think hard about how badly I need that water. I don't need it too bad, but I'd sure love some if my pacer is going to stop... maybe she'll stop for water? That would be heaven. Please lady? Please can you stop for water?

Not a chance. Onward we go. Soon we are going past Butler stadium for the third time, this time making our way up the hill behind it toward the trail. She is not slowing down. The growing slope is making me want to slow down. I don't slow down. My heart is trying to escape the prison that is my ribcage. My head becomes a sweaty tomato with a ponytail. Finally, the top!

Thank go-ooooh no. That's the trail right there. The trail with hills and sharp, slippery rocks that are the bane of all people with a history of ankle injuries. (!) Okay. Okay, I can do this. Just don't look back and stay with her. Let's DO this. I keep my eyes glued to the ground in front of me and expend a lot of energy trying not to roll an ankle. Somehow, she is able to do this a lot more quickly than I am. Why am I slowing down? Keeping my ankles the way they are should not slow me down! Quick, light steps. Take more quick, light steps, Krischelle! Excellent, I'm catching up again.

Careening down a small hill, I pick up some speed to go charging up the next one up ahead, slightly steeper and more imposing. Suddenly, something is wrong. I'm not chasing a moving object anymore. The moving object has stopped short in gully between hills and is sucking wind. Shit. NOW who's going to pace me? Should I stop too? But I feel good! I should keep running! She turns so I can see her face for the first time, her sweaty tomato head rivaling mine, and she gives me a little nod and continues to swallow air. What just happened? I'm running up a hill now, working hard but not dying, and what just happened?

'Just keep running, idiot.' The voice in my head makes sense. I keep running. An old lady (by no means frail) flies past me and I try to keep up with her but this proves to be hopeless. I keep running and focus on trying not to walk. The rest of the trail is uphill and this undoubtedly sucks, so walking will pretty much mean the end of my race, but I'm only a little past halfway!

I pass the mile 4 marker. Woo! Here I come, Butler Stadium. I'm on my way. 2/3 down, 1/3 to go. I hear uncharacteristically fast footsteps coming from behind me. It's the leader of the second wave. Thank goodness I made it 2/3 of the way before he caught me. He gives me an "oo-rah" as he passes and this galvanizes my resolve. The hill just gets bigger and bigger but I'm going to kill my way to the top. Two or three more second-wavers pass me. One of them is a teenage boy. I feel old and slow. Now I'm on the trail again. How does this road keep going uphill?

As I start to lose my resolve (for the 100th time?) another Marine runs past me just as we reach the peak of the hill. He actually slows to look back at me and says, "You're doing great. Don't give up now!" Good idea! I keep pushing to keep up the pace and start the final downhill. Did I mention I'm really bad at running downhill? I start to feel strange pains in my shins. Like maybe if I keep doing this, I'm going to get shin splints. But maybe if I brake too hard with my legs, my knees will hate me. What to do? I decide it's best to focus on not eating asphalt since that will be disastrous on a hill like this, so I concentrate on keeping my ankles aligned and my steps quick. This seems to work.

Soon, we are looping around Butler Stadium to do the last lap around the delicious new rubberized track where there is a finish line and also some bananas to eat. Sweet!

Why is this taking so long? Why?! I can't believe I'm not there yet. Why am I not there yet? UGH. My shins feel like jelly and fast people are all sprinting past me. I can't sprint like that, this far away! I practically AM sprinting! Oh my goodness WHY.

Ugh, finally on the track. Now to sprint! I can totally pass these three ladies in front of me. Go, go gadget legs.

...Hello? Legs? Faster please? Okay, okay. I can pass this one lady in front of me. Eventually. Maybe I'll pass her right at the finish line. Jelly legs just need to stay rigid long enough for me to get there. Stay strong, jelly legs. We're going to do this. Push, push, push.

I pass her in the last few yards before the finish line and everything becomes a blur of blood rushing through my head. There is only the sound of whooshing in my ears. A man is pointing at something small and black in his hand. He wants me to what? Oh, I have to bend down now and take the chip off of my shoe. WHOA, dizzy. Here you go, mister. Time for a banana.

Sweet.

Labels: 10K, MCM series, race, red gatorade, rocky trail

I joined PGRC yesterday since it was only $3 more to become a member than it was to run today's race as a non-member. I think it was well worth it since there is at least one weekly run that starts practically outside my doorstep and the people in the club were all nice runners who were there for fun and camaraderie instead of ignoring everybody and trying to PR every other second.

It was a chilly morning, but most of that was the dew since I was getting on the road at 0615. When Coach and I got to the gym where we picked up our bibs, the sun was out and I predicted a lot of sweating in my two long-sleeve layers. I ditched the under armour before the start, but then ended up mildly uncomfortable because of the cold for the next two hours. Oh well. I'm still trying to figure out if that had anything to do with my left forearm going numb and then hurting for the last mile and half. My watch wasn't on any tighter than usual, but when I reached for my numb arm, it felt tight around my flesh - at least to the touch of my good hand. I loosened the watch a notch to see if it would help, but that did nothing. It started to really hurt as I came down the last quarter mile, but luckily it was only a quarter mile. Seems okay now.

The club picked up two stragglers to join the team so that we could compete (we needed 15 runners), but then I found out there was another rule I had failed to learn about beforehand. A runner had to finish the 10 miles in 2 hours or less in order to be scored. With me and about 2-3 of the other club regulars living dangerously on the cusp, I felt like I'd better try really hard. I imagined myself taking a nice easy pace most of the way and then seeing the race clock about 20 yards ahead at 1:59:57, knowing that I would miss the mark by mere seconds. Luckily, that thought kept me from walking too long during my increasingly frequent Gatorade breaks in the last two miles.

12 minutes per mile doesn't sound fast to most people, and in fact, it doesn't even sound fast to me these days with all the focus I'm putting on being able to switch modes as a runner so that I can score well on the PFT in addition to running marathons. Still, it was a great victory to be scored in that race, and with 4 minutes to spare! A sub-12 pace for 10 miles is a light year away from where I was throughout MCM training and about 67 light years from my actual marathon pace. I sometimes forget that I only started running last April (and that it was a false start with a sprained ankle after only a little over a week). Coach says that it takes about two years to mature a runner, so I'm counting on a lot of improvement this next year or so.

Next week is the real challenge. Well, it's the next one anyway. Every day I pound the pavement is a new challenge for me right now. As Samwise likes to say, this next marathon is to prove that the first one wasn't a fluke. (The next 50-60 will be to join the 50 states and 7 continents clubs.) Coach listened to me go on about all the people I'd get to visit whose couches I would shamelessly crash on in order to achieve these goals, and it reminded him of another marathon follow-up tidbit he wanted to share with MCP. Seems that most people run a marathon and then fall into one of two groups: the Never Agains and the Extremely Addicted. He warned against trying to run too many in the first year (or two) because that often leads to injuries, which lead to membership in the Never Agains. Makes sense to me.

While my current mental state definitely puts me in that dangerous group that wants to run as many as possible as soon as possible, I imagine there is an important lesson waiting for me in LA. The logical part of my brain that's still cowering in a corner trying to hide from the bullies who like it when I run all crazy-like? Well, that part managed to get a message out, convincing me to wait on registering for the Frederick Marathon until after LA. That way I will not only know what it means to run one's first 2-3 marathons too close together, but I will most likely also FEEL it. In my bones. In my joints. In my muscles. Everywhere. Early May isn't so far off and I admit that this might not be the best idea I've ever had. Still...

We'll see.

Labels: caffeine, race, shot blocks, swollen hands, taper, yellow gatorade

I look really stupid, but that's what you get when your supervisor comes into your office and says to show off your medal for the camera. My knees are killing me, but I'm already thinking about registering for LA in early March. (What is wrong with me!?)

I figure it's like ripping the band-aid off. Better to do it sooner than later. Plus, I have some room for improvement. 6:22:20 is, well, 6:22:20. That's two whole hours slower than Oprah did it a few years ago and it would be unacceptable for me to give up now. In other news, there's all kinds of other stuff going on with me (what's new), possibly including some major life transitions very soon, but I'll get to that in my main blog soon enough. For now, all I have to say is BOO-ya!

Labels: marathon, MCM, race

I just put my registration form & check in the mail for the Quantico Half Marathon: "the official training event for the Marine Corps Marathon." Screw that unofficial shit I did a few weeks ago. This is official.

...I'm kind of nervous. There are going to be a lot of Marines running a lot faster than me and mister-man will be there to see me looking really miserable and being very slow. They even allow people to race with strollers. I keep imagining these tough moms zooming past me, pushing twins in double-wide running strollers. Just how pathetic will I be?

I need to stop thinking about other people and remember why I'm doing this. :\

Labels: jitters, Quantico Half Marathon, race, Riley's Rumble

I had a rumble in my tumble again today, but I persevered and finished my first half marathon. I hope a 3:00 half marathon is never a PR for me ever again!

Looking forward to that well-earned massage tomorrow night...

Labels: half marathon, massage, race, Riley's Rumble

I feel worthless today for postponing my run another day when I had planned to do Monday-Wednesday-Friday this week in preparation for Riley's. But Monday brought on the most painful four miles of my life. I felt like I had heartburn the whole time. I brought water with me, though no beans or gatorade since the workout was only about 45 minutes. I threw up some water right at the end when I could feel my body running out of something after about 3.5 miles (was it dehydration? did I use up my glycogen stores? who knows?) and I pushed my limit and made myself finish the four miles.

The second I stopped running, it felt like that was the worst decision I had made all week... only I couldn't tell if the mistake was making myself keep running to that point, or stopping when I needed to keep going. Either way, after that first step I walked, the damage was done. I swirled some water in my mouth and spit out some kind of nasty goo that had formed in my mouth and the tried to drink some only to wretch it back into my mouth. Gross.

I had eaten a buffalo burger for lunch that day and it was slightly undercooked, but you'd think if it was that it would have bothered me sooner than seven hours later! What's worse is that I didn't wake up feeling better yesterday. I've been feeling queasy and heartburn-y since then and my body just doesn't feel like it's recovered from Saturday, let alone the second beating I gave it on Monday. I scheduled my first massage for Monday night, so I know that will be well deserved after I have a go at the Rumble on Sunday.

All this and those 10+ miles on Saturday felt like such a breeze at the time! Eesh.

But the real point of this entry should be that I looked back at my last few entries and--lo and behold!--the last time I felt this kind of a bodily funk was exactly a month ago. Fancy that! I guess I haven't taken a cut-back week since then, and my body is hollering at me for it. It's too bad Riley's falls on this week, but I guess this will just make into that much more of a test for me. At this rate, MCM might be falling on my off week! (Please no, please no, please no...) I think it will actually be a week after the off week if it keeps going exactly every 4th week, but I know that sort of thing is never predictable.

I don't know what else to say. The more I sit here to type, the more opportunity I have to whine, and that ain't helping no-one.

Can it be Monday now?

Labels: got dat funk, heartburn, long run, massage, race, rest week, Riley's Rumble, short run