Monday Wrap Up: Mind Games

Coming to you a day late with this (err… last) week’s wrap up. Absolutely gorged myself on tapas last night and it’s difficult enough to type with a food coma, let alone a food coma supplemented by half-priced bottles of wine. Wine? you ask. But of course. One must diversify one's portfolio.

After Friday’s pace run, I was feeling pretty stoked and the running funk I’d been in for a week seemed to have lifted. But there was hardly time for celebration, as my weekly LSD – 20 miles – loomed large.

Okay, fine, there was some celebration. Happy hour, followed by dinner and yet more drinks. And in case you’re wondering, I would not recommend spinach artichoke dip as a good pre-run food, but we’ll get to that.

With a searing 95 degrees forecast for Sunday and a date in the City of Love – New Haven (fine, I used “love” as a synonym for “gun-related crime” just then) – planned for Saturday afternoon, I set the alarm for 5:30am and hit the sack, trying to rid myself of any pre-run anxiety (I would recommend beer for this, but there is a very fine line between “soothing and relaxing” and “epic hangover inducing, and it’s one I’ve neglected to respect on more than one occasion…).

Feeling groggy, I stumbled out of bed with the alarm, made a cup of coffee, and dug through my dresser to find the gear I needed. It wasn’t until I was fully dressed and filling up my handheld (remind me to get back to that in a moment) that I realized I was gearing up for a 20 miler. I hate 20 milers. They take a long time and they hurt and they are pretty important in the scheme of this whole marathon training plan and I screwed up the last one so, hey, no pressure or anything, Champ.

For me, 20 milers are much more about mental endurance than physical. Can I trick myself into thinking this isn't that long, that painful, that sweaty? Will I give into the temptation to say "close enough?" How well defined is the distinction between "want to stop" and "need to stop"? Trust me, I can come up with more than enough eternal running questions to fill the time it takes to run 20 miles.

I hit the road and headed towards the Hudson. With a very rough plan in mind (run north, turn around, run south, eventually head east, end up at home), I made my way uptown on the Greenway. I ticked off the first five-ish miles feeling meh; that spinach artichoke dip wasn’t doing my stomach any favors. But eventually I sorted myself out and wended my way up to West 125th Street before turning around and heading back downtown.

Still without a map in mind, I weighed my options: I could head back across town at 23rd Street and run to the Brooklyn Bridge and back, or run all the way through Battery Park and uptown along the East River. Ultimately, though, I decided that I’d spent enough time running to the Brooklyn Bridge on my regular routes, and since my failed attempt last week had taken me through Battery Park, I didn’t want to risk being deterred by violent flashbacks (like Law and Order, only without the murder). I kept running downtown along the West Side Highway until Carl had ticked off 16 miles, then turned to head north and east to get home. 20 miles on the nose, 3:03:30.

As I mentioned, I tried a new product this week – The Nathan Handheld Quickdraw Plus. While generally speaking, water is readily available on my urban running adventures, I spend a fair amount of time running in suburban Connecticut, where water fountains are not so plentiful. While I’ve stashed water in the past, or grabbed a bottle of water before setting out, I’ve always been acutely irritated by having to hold onto it. Moving my legs forward is difficult enough; I don’t need to have to master gripping something simultaneously. And don’t get me started on the girth of Gatorade bottles… So I dropped into Paragon one night last week to pick up some gear, and decided to invest in a handheld, which is actually a misnomer, since it actually does the hand-holding. Nathan Handgrabber, maybe?

Anyway, I was a big fan of this, and it’s shocking how much less annoying hydration is when you don’t have to think about it. The bottle fits well in your hand, and the adjustable harness is comfortable and secure. I periodically switched between left and right hands, just because 22 oz. of water can get heavy, but it never felt like a burden. I stopped to refill twice on Saturday’s 20 miler, at miles 13 and 18 (66 oz. total), which was easy and non-drippy. Plus the zippered pocket on the harness has enough room for two packets of Gu (miles 9 and 15) and some money (a Gatorade reward for finishing!).

As for the wrap up…

Number of Miles Run This Week: 44. Feeling extra proud about 30 of these (the pace run and the LSD) on account of conquering my psyche. That said, looking forward to starting my taper in two weeks...

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: In the company of my saucy redheaded friend Cathy, I threw back 7 between Thursday and Friday, which was it for beer this week. Quite a drop off since last week, though in my defense I actually had to go to work for five whole days.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Pilsner Urquell (on sale at Morton Williams!), Sam Summer, Chimay, Sierra Nevada and Bud Light. The best part about having friends over is that they come bearing alcohol. The good ones do, anyway…

And speaking of beers, I'm off to the homeland on Wednesday. The homeland being the Guinness Factory specifically, as opposed to Ireland more generally. To be sure, beers will be plentiful, runs will be scenic, and inappropriate dance floor antics will go down. Sadly you won't hear about it until my return next week. Friends don't let friends blog from weddings. In the meantime, I've got a fridge full of perishable foods I've gotta take care of. Slash eat...

Pacing Practice

After a hearty dinner of five beers and some Pirate's Booty (I like to give myself every advantage during training...), I hit the sack last night to rest up for today's planned Marathon Pace Run, the last on the schedule before October 3rd. The plan called once again for 10 miles, with the middle 8 at Goal Marathon Pace. As you may recall, the last time I tried this workout, it sucked. I guess I confused my GMP with Kara Goucher's, and flew through my miles way faster than I should have. (Yes, that was a very generous comparison. A more accurate parallel would be to Kara Goucher's GMP the day after giving birth. Day before? During labor, maybe?). I felt terrible throughout that workout and knew my pace was unsustainable for 9 miles, let alone 26.2.

Since today was the last scheduled GMP run, the pressure was really on to not, how do you say... eff shit up. I tried to put apprehension out of my mind and headed out the door, warming up on my run over to the West Side Greenway.

Like my last attempt, the first target GMP mile coincided with the crosswalks of 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th Avenues, which meant lots of standing and waiting to cross (you know how I feel about jogging in place). As such, the first GMP mile came in at 8:33. 9 seconds slow. But with a valid excuse (and an eye on traffic safety!), I wasn't discouraged. I made my way uptown for the second GMP mile. 8:08. Too fast, but not way out of line. Mile 3, though? 7:50. "Well shit," I thought. "History is about to repeat itself.

You see, it was this pattern last week that set the wheels in motion for... the wheels to come off (mixing metaphors is confusing...). In an attempt to compensate for a slow first mile, I sped up for mile 2. And 3. And 4. Until I'd gotten so far along that I figured I should just keep up what I knew what an ambitious pace. But not this time. I spent much of the next mile staring at Carl (which is hard when you're also trying to dodge other runners, bikes, dogs, and personal trainers who make absolutely no effort to get out of the way even though they're doing nothing but standing still in sweatpants watching their clients' exert themselves) and constantly adjusting my pace. It took a lot of work, but I hit mile 4 at 8:17.

I wish I could say that once I found that pace, I was able to lock it in and coast for the next 5 miles, but that's far from the truth. Some people are natural pace masters. Those people end up leading pace groups for the New York Road Runners and running marathons up mountains (I'm looking at you, Lam and Elyssa). Much as I would love to be that badass, I am most certainly not. And as proof: if I went as far a a quarter mile without checking my pace on Carl, I'd find I'd sped up.

After much concentration and consternation, I knocked out some splits I was pretty happy with today:

1: 8:33

2: 8:08

3: 7:50

4: 8:17

5: 8:17

6: 8:16

7: 8:12

8: 8:06

While they aren't consistent and are still too fast, and you'll note that none of them is the actual 8:24 I was aiming for, I was proud of the fact that I managed to use the right strategy, which is one I have never mastered on race day: don't give in to the temptation to bank time early on. If a split is too fast, react by s l o w i n g d o w n, not trying to maintain it.

Even though this was the last pace run on the schedule, I feel like I've only just gotten a handle on how to run these workouts. I'll aim for another next week and see if this is a lesson I can actually retain. Which is made harder by the fact that I think 5 beers is an appropriate dinner...

Hurts So Good

You know that feeling when something hurts so much that you want to throw up? Is it wrong to like that?

Since Sunday's stormy run, my quads have been unreasonably sore, so I spent last night in bed with The Stick, which despite its name and the set up I just gave, is not something you buy online from Toys in Babeland (that link is probably NSFW, unless you work in a sex toy factory). It's a hard plastic stick about 18 inches long with ziti shaped beads on it (fat kid alert: I'm drawing parallels between pasta and exercise equipment). For being so simple in design, it's truly astounding how effective a massage tool The Stick is. And holy hell did I need it last night. I spent a good 20 minutes rolling out my quads and IT bands on both legs, and found painful places I didn't know I had. Like a sadist, I couldn't stop.

I woke up this morning somewhat more ambulatory than I had been on Monday and set out for my morning run. The cool temperatures combined with my guilt over throwing in the towel 7 miles early on Sunday convinced me to run at goal marathon pace, even though I was only going four miles.

The downtown route proved to be pretty painless, and once I got moving I hardly noticed my quads. Mile 1: 8:17. Mile 2: 8:16.

At 2.25, I turned around and headed back uptown and was confronted with a crazy strong headwind that was wrestling to blow me into the East River. My momentary joy at having knocked out my first two miles with ease was shattered when I realized I had been shoved along by gusts the whole way. But I'd already set a goal for the day, so I decided to stick it out and push through the wind. This was no small feat, as I am no small girl. With almost 6 feet of vertical surface area, the bottom half of me can be blown in one direction while the top half gets blown another. I look like that guy outside a car dealership:

I headed back uptown into the wind and could feel how hard my quads were working. Oh. Maybe running through a category 5 hurricane on Sunday has something to do with how sore my legs are. Genius. Anyway, mile 3: 8:19. Mile 4: 8:06.

From there, I intended to cool off and make my way to the gym, where I would be forced to stretch, since what else was I going to do there? Though I do rather enjoy their shower products... In any case, I started mile 5 at a slow and easy clip, but somehow found myself finishing it in 8:19. Oops. Make that five miles at GMP.

In other news, I've gone 48 hours without a drink. That has to be some kind of record. Oh, how I miss vacation, where it's acceptable to begin boozing at breakfast. Oh that's right; I'll be in Ireland next week! Pour me a Guinness, suckers!

Sunday Wrap Up: Prunes for Everyone!

Is there a feeling shittier than that which you get on the Sunday evening before you must return to work after an awesome vacation? I think not. I'll get right to the wrap up so as to distract myself from the temptation to get in a cab and go back to JFK and board a plane and be in Maine again tonight.

Number of Miles Run This Week: 37. As if the usual post-vacation Sunday depression weren't bad enough, I was staring down a 20 miler when I woke up this morning. It was pouring rain, and, ever the helpful and supportive boyfriend, IMan said "Wow, your run is going to suck in this weather." Sure enough, he was right. I unpacked and snacked and generally procrastinated until 2:00pm, when I finally laced up the sneaks with the intention of logging 20 miles. For the first mile, the wind blew so hard I very nearly started crying (Sunday post-vacation depression makes me very emotional). All I could think was "God damn this stupid city with it's dirt and crap getting blown directly into my eyes." There is no dirt in Maine - only delicious seafoods and blueberries and puppies and fun. Fact. By mile two, it started raining. Hard. As in, a torrential, soaking rain. For the next mile, I continued to see a stream of other runners and bikers, presumably seeking shelter, but soon enough, I was the only one out there. At one point the rain was coming down so hard, and the wind blowing puddles so fiercely they developed currents, that all I could do was laugh. I must have looked like a lunatic, running in that weather like it was no big thing. I also must have looked like a hooker, since once my shirt and shorts were soaked through and sticking to my body, they left nothing to the imagination. Sorry, elementary school field trip at South Street Seaport...

Anyway, the rain continued for almost an hour, and as my socks and shoes became more and more water logged, my legs felt heavier and heavier. I ran through Battery Park and up the Greenway to the Intrepid, but by 10 miles I was totally out of gas. I don't know if I didn't eat enough, or sleep enough, or dry myself out enough (both literally and in terms of the vast quantities of beer I put back in the last week) or if I just let my mental disinterest in this run dictate my physical "prowess," but I didn't have it in me. I headed home and logged 13 miles - 7 short of my target, and 5 short of my run last Sunday. And parts of my body I didn't know could get pruney from water exposure, did.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: On the plus side, here is an area in which I really succeeded this week! I didn't keep very good numerical track, but I had a beer (or two...) at lunch every day, another 2 at dinner, and whatever we consumed at "Happy Hour," which is really just my family sitting in the living room drinking together. I think 20 would be a conservative estimate.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: God, Maine has such good beer. Such delicious, varied, amazing, readily accessible beer. Among the (many) local beers I sampled included Allagash White, Geary's Pale Ale, Geary's Summer Ale, Andrew's Pale Ale, Belfast Lobster Ale, Bar Harbor Real Ale, Shipyard Summer Ale, Shipyard Export, and Gritty McDuff's Pub Ale. Plus those Belgian strumpets my sister provided earlier in the week. OH GOD WHY CAN'T EVERY WEEK BE VACATION?

This coming week is a "step-back" week for running, which means I get a break from doing things like going to the track (can I get more praise for going to the track on my vacation?). While I'm discouraged about today's failed run, I'm resisting the temptation to try again tomorrow; I know I can manage the distance, as demonstrated last weekend, and I'm starting to grapple with the mental fatigue and physical aches and pains associated with overtraining. Besides, I have 20 on the schedule again next Sunday, and I'm determined to go into it with a positive attitude. And, one would assume, without a week's worth of lunchtime beers in my tummy.

In Bart We Trust

Bart Yasso is the "Chief Running Officer" for Runner's World, which is a job title I might like to have except that I don't know many AIDS service organizations or LGBT groups which require a Chief Running Officer on their payroll. He has run marathons on all seven continents, finished Badwater, is a 5 time Ironman, and has completed a solo cycle across the country. Twice. I was captain of the JV tennis team in high school.

Bart is also the developer of a much-heralded marathon training workout, Yasso 800s. When I woke up this morning, I had never before run a Yasso 800, or any other kind of 800. But having found my way to a track once last week and survived, I was equal to the task. I just had to figure out what a Yasso 800 was first.

Handily, The Plan provides brief commentary on the scheduled workout in its daily emails. Today's instruction was this:

Today you get to try (Ed. Note: "get" to try? Stop pretending this is a privilege.) Yasso 800s, the workout that's become famous as a fitness boost and for predicting marathon finishing times. It's a simple speed session: six repeats of 800 meters (two laps around the track) with 400 meters of recovery in between.

2-mile warmup

6 x 800 meters with 400-meter recovery segments. 2-mile cooldown

Here's how to pace yourself: If you want to run a 3:10 marathon, try to run each 800-meter repeat in three minutes and 10 seconds. If you want to run a 4-hour marathon, run each 800-meter repeat in 4 minutes.

Well that seems straightforward enough. I should be running each 800 in 3:40. Not that I had any idea what a 3:40 pace for an 800 felt like. At least I knew what I was meant to be aiming for.

I headed off to Camden Hills Regional High School to make use of their track. I had just started my second warm up mile when boys' preseason soccer let out and I was joined by about a half dozen teenaged spectators. Is it weird that this made me nervous? No matter; I had bigger things to worry about. I was about to see just how realistic this 3:40 marathon goal was.

I started out the first lap of the first repeat at a comfortably fast pace. Not an all out sprint, but a good clip. Arms pumping, legs driving, the whole shebang. I finished lap one, looked at Carl, and realized I forgot to make note of my starting time for this repeat, and am too much of a Luddite to figure out how to get Carl to display splits. With no idea how my effort was translating into pace, I took on lap 2. I made very few adjustments to my pace, and with 100 meters to go, I was feeling reasonably tired, which I took to be a good sign. First 800: 3:35.

Pleased that I appeared to have done this workout "right," at least for the first 800, I mentally congratulated myself for 400 meters of recovery, and found that was ample time to feel refreshed (I would, of course, have loved more time to gloat). After making note of the time, I took off for 800 numero dos, to the cheers (or jeers) of the boys' soccer team.

Here's where it gets repetitive, so I'll spare you the details and get to the splits:

1) 3:35

2) 3:37

3) 3:35

4) 3:30

5) 3:32

6) 3:34

By the fifth attempt, I could tell I was losing steam and my legs and my lungs were fatigued by 600 meters. As I jogged my fifth recovery lap, I was a little fearful I would drop off for my sixth and final 800. True, I did sprint the last straightaway, but even at my most tired, I was right on track with my pacing. I contemplated the potential magnitude of this as I took two miles of recovery: If Bart had anything to say about it, I'd be blogging from Hopkinton come April.

Now here is where I wax philosophical. Or pessimistic. Or something. All I'm saying is, I don't know that I'm ready to decide that these here Yasso 800s are perfection when it comes to marathon predictions. I mean, it's only 800 meters. Which is almost a marathon, give or take about 41,400 meters. While the powers that be (obviously that means Runner's World) seem to be drinking the Yasso Kool-aid (see here) , I'm not planning my baked bean- and cream-pie pre-marathon dinner in Boston just yet. Also, if I do qualify, don't ever let me eat baked beans and cream pie before the race.

That said, HELL YEAH! I KICKED ASS TODAY! I deserve a(nother) beer. Or a clam strip. Who's got the clam strips?

Brew Review: The Belgians

Morning kiddos. Tuesday in Maine was delightful: after a pleasant 5 miles of recovery, I headed to the tennis courts for an aggressive and highly competitive game of doubles, during which my father clocked my sister in the face with a ball. Standard. But after so much physical activity, we were thirsty and in need of electrolytes and... yeast. Behold: the Belgian Beer Tasting.

This gets complicated so try to keep up: My sister is American (like me!) and used to be a New Yorker, until she moved to Michigan last year to get her MBA. But over the summer she lived in Amsterdam for work, except on the weekends, when she traveled all over Europe sampling steaks and booze across the land (that wasn't her actual job, but how sweet would that be?). One such voyage she made was to Belgium, where she procured some delicious beers for her sister (just like the old days, when I was underage! Related note: once in high school, used her ID to buy beer and had to walk up to the counter practically on my knees. Being giant-sized is annoying sometimes).

Beer number one was the Bruegel Amber Ale at left. It poured a rusty caramel color and gave off an exemplary Belgian yeasty smell. Liz thought it was disgusting. Which I suppose in theory it was. Imagine drinking something that smelled like the inside of a Subway sandwich joint. But because I associate that smell with delicious beers, this didn't faze me.

Liz, Dudley and I took our first sips together (Mom played photographer) and gave our reactions. "Hoppy," Liz said. "Not hoppy," Dudley and I replied. She's more of a wino anyway.

In summation, this beer had a nice, malty taste with a little sourness or tang when it finished (that's what she said), that almost reminded me of apple cider vinegar. In a good way.

Beer number two was the Petrus Winter at right. This is a corked and caged bottle (like champagne), and combined with the image on the label (is that Santa?), this seemed like a Christmastime celebration beer. So yes, let's have a taste in August!

This poured a cloudy brown with a thick and frothy head. Surprisingly, it gave off almost no aroma - maybe a little grainy, but very mild. We were also surprised when we tasted it at how mild it was. Rather than the spices and cloves we were expecting, this was very tame: light and refreshing, as opposed to heady and heavy. It was like the beer and the bottle didn't match up. Nonetheless, we all thought this tasted good, and quickly polished off this Belgian gem. Well, technically we didn't quite polish it off: Liz was scared of swallowing sediment, so she left a good two fingers worth in her glass.

Don't worry though; we've no shortage of beers even though the Belgians are done for. For those who have never been to Maine - what the hell is the matter with you?! In addition to being beautiful and primed for outdoor fun, Maine has possibly the best craft brewing companies on the East Coast (bold statement, I know). Geary's, Gritty's, Shipyard, Allagash, plus tons of more locally available beers from Andrew's, Belfast, Liberal Cup, Sunday River, Atlantic, Bar Harbor... I'm overwhelmed! In fact, it's 7:48am; I should probably get a move on today's scheduled run so I can start the drinking!

What's Flemish for "cheers!"?

Sunday Wrap Up: The Way Life Should Be

Greetings from Camden! I kicked off my first full day in Midcoast Maine with an 18 mile run, which was both a good way to check out all the things that have changed in town since last summer, as well as a good excuse to eat blueberry pies, fried scallops, and drawn butter with reckless abandon for the rest of my week here.

While I normally work myself up into a frenzy over the prospect of my long runs, this week I was determined to channel a calmer Claire. The first loop of today's LSD - a 7 miler that took me down to the water and was a mix of paved roads and trails - felt great, if hilly, and I was excited at the prospect of knocking out a long run without agony. I came up to the house and scooped up my dad for the next 4 miles, which presented a much-needed break from the pace. Unfortunately, we headed out away from town, where the traffic sped by much more heavily, and most of that stretch was spent stressing about not getting clipped by pick-ups flying by at 65 miles an hour. For the second time in a month, I was nearly taken out by a car making a right turning directly into the space in which I was running. Message to motorists: if you're turning right, don't just look to the left for oncoming traffic. Look into the space you're hoping to occupy for lanky, loping, running girls. Just because I look like I should be put out of my misery doesn't mean I want to be.

I dropped Dudley back at the house and headed out for a second go of the 7 mile loop, this time in the opposite direction. I also carried a small bottle of water with me and gulped most of it down before I'd gone 2 miles. Surprisingly, my legs felt like they had plenty of gas left, and I happily ticked off miles as Carl beeped.

At 15 I was running low on aqua, and happily remembered my lesson from yesterday - cemeteries have ample sources of water! I took a slight detour and readily found a spigot to top off my water bottle and was on my way.

The last half-mile is up a steep hill, and when Carl beeped 18 miles before I got to the house, I considered walking the rest of the way uphill. "The faster you go, the sooner you can lie down," I thought, and powered up the hill. 18.11 miles - done! I was tired, but pleased to conclude I wasn't completely cooked.

968 feet of elevation gain!

Some ladies who kept me company on the run

Now that that's out of the way, I'm able to take care of some more important vacation-related matters:

On to the Wrap Up!

Number of Miles Run This Week: 44. Good God, I'm tired.

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 10, but as the image above would indicated, I'm only just getting started for the day...

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: Heineken, Blue Moon, Stella, and Geary's Summer Ale. I also ordered a Blueberry Martini last night, which was totally weird and random of me, and also dumb since I hate liquor. My mom, however, selflessly absolved me of having to drink it, and slurped it right up. Always putting others before herself, that one.

While being in Maine this week (a whole week of vacation?! That's unprecedented!) will be very relaxing, I have another tough week of runs coming up: Yasso 800s on Wednesday, and 20 miles on Sunday when I'm back in New York. Combined with tennis, hiking, fishing, and general outdoor fun here in Vacationland, and I better get cracking on drinking these beers - I need calorie replacements, stat!

Marathon Pace Run

I'm embarrassed to cop to this, since it's essentially the cardinal rule of marathoning, and something I've had the chance to practice in a race environment seven times already, but I really, truly suck at pacing. I know that I should be aiming for negative splits, finishing the second half of a race faster than the first half, but as soon as I get out there and start running, my brain says, "But this time it's different. You should run fast first so you have money in the bank." This is the same brain who has sacrificed countless brain cells to the brewing industry, so it's unclear why I let him call the shots anymore, but I do. And so I haul ass at the first opportunity and inevitably wind up dragging myself across the finish line in a sweaty heap with no energy left whatsoever. At least I'm consistent.

This morning was my first marathon pace run: 1 mile warm up, 7 miles at race pace (8:23), 1 mile cool down. I headed across town to the West Side Greenway in near-ideal conditions. "This will be great!" I thought. I crossed Eighth Avenue and Carl beeped that my warm up mile was complete. I headed off for my first race pace mile.

With 3 avenues left to cross before I arrived at the traffic-free Greenway, I was held up several times at cross walks. While the traffic wasn't too heavy at 6:00am, I still had to stop several times. As a result, mile 1 clocked in at 8:30. This was the start of my problems.

I decided at that point that I should probably kick it up for mile 2 to make up for the lost time. Keep in mind, that lost time was all of 7 seconds. I ran each of the next two miles 31 seconds faster than race pace. I am an moron.

By mile 3, the idiocy of my plan had begun to sink in; this wasn't only unsustainable, but completely unnecessary. But if I slowed down to actual race pace, my splits would be totally out of whack. And what if I slowed for mile 4, and more for mile 5, and still more for miles 6 and 7 and ended up behind pace? (The answer: so what. This escaped me while I was running). So I plugged away, legs burning more with each step, eyes fixed on Carl as he counted down the hundredths of a mile left for each of what were by this point far more miles than I had the energy to tackle. I am so stubborn sometimes.

In the end, my splits for the marathon pace part of this workout were:

1: 8:30

2: 7:52

3: 7:52

4: 8:01

5: 8:09

6: 8:03

7: 8:01

You'll note that the first "race pace" mile - the one that set off the chain of events that lead to my agony - was the only one that was at all close to my goal pace of 8:23. When Carl beeped at the end of that final race pace mile, all I could think about was how screwed I'd be if I'd used this brilliant strategy in the actual race. As I headed home for 2 miles of cool down, I was fully ready to employ the Old Man Running technique: as long as my arms are pumping, it counts as running, regardless of how slow my feet are shuffling along. All told, it was 10 very unpleasant miles of my life I'll never get back. Not that I want them back anyway. My fellow runner's would agree: I didn't accomplish the goals of this workout. Further, I'm frustrated that I fell into the same trap that gets me every single time. My beer-swilling friends will tell me I need to loosen up and get myself a drink. It's Friday, after all.

In happier news, I'm off to Maine for a week's vacation tomorrow! I've already scouted out the track at the local high school so I can run my Yasso 800s on Tuesday (joy...). I'd thought about knocking out my weekly long run (18 this week) tomorrow before I get in the car, but after this morning's death march, I'm reconsidering. Not that spending 6 hours crammed in a car after running for 3 hours doesn't sound like a dream...

On Mile Repeats (Spoiler: I Hate Mile Repeats)

You'd think that after my experience with hill repeats, during which they turned out to be not so bad after all and made me feel like a competent runner and human, I wouldn't have been so dreading this week's mile repeats. You would be wrong.

Today's workout called for 2 miles of warm up, 4x1600 repeats with 400 recovery between each, and 2 miles cool down. The plan said this would be 8 miles, but because I am a math genius, I know that this is actually 9 miles. Don't think for a second I'm not counting those recovery laps. If my legs are carrying me over them, they're going in the training log.

As I have mentioned, I am a speed workout novice, and as such, I didn't even quite know what pace I was meant to be aiming for when I headed out this morning, so I thought back to my recent run with my Uncle John. He reported that you could reasonably expect to run your marathon at 20-30 seconds per mile slower than your mile repeat pace. While that put him at 5:06/mile, a pace I couldn't hit even if I were running straight into the arms of Michael Strahan (is it weird that he's my A Number One Celebrity Love?), that math left me with the more reasonable pace of 7:53/mile.

After a carb-a-licious dinner (cous cous and two beers), I hit the sack early to give myself every advantage. I was going to smoke these repeats, damnit! When I headed out this morning and was walloped in the gut by the humidity, however, even 7:53s seemed ambitious. After 2 1/2 miles of warm up, during which my nerves were not soothed but rather further agitated, I got to the track, already ready to throw up. I hadn't even done a single lap yet.

I decided to just run the first one at a pace that felt comfortably fast (not puke-threshold fast, as I learned the hard way during my hill repeats last week...) and adjust from there. I felt tall and strong over the first 400. I wished I were doing 800s over the next 400. I realized that "half" was still a lot of ground to cover over the next 400. "Okay, well at least now I've done one," I thought over the last 400. Mile 1: 7:28.

Whoa! Hey! Look at me! A 7:28! And the weather is bad and my legs are tired! Forgot a BQ; I'm probably going to podium at Wineglass!

I jogged a 400 for recovery and toed up to my invisible starting line for the next repeat. "Ow," I thought as I made the first turn. 1500 to go...

Mile two was a lot harder. I crossed the line at 7:27, but with a much more pronounced grimace than I wore after the first mile. I couldn't believe how much sooner my legs were burning. Oh God, I still have to run two more of these things?!

After my second recovery 400, my cardiovascular strength was restored, but my legs were still heavy. I slowed to a virtual crawl, trying to make the most out of that recovery lap. But soon enough, I was back at the starting line for mile 3. Can we go home yet?

For the third repeat, I tried to look at Carl only once each lap, when I finished. After lap one, he indicated I'd better get a move on. You know what Carl? Why don't you grow a pair of legs and try to do this workout yourself, asshole? Mile 3: 7:30.

By my third recovery lap, I was struggling. "Maybe 3 repeats is enough," I thought. I really did not want to drag myself around that track for another 4 laps. Trust me, it is longer than it feels. Especially when you're dodging folks walking in the inside lane. Seriously people, please don't do this. But, lead-legged as I was, I did. And it was ugly. And slow. 7:40. Oops.

Still, in spite of an unevenly pace last mile, I consider this workout a success (yes, Cate, mostly because I ran into you on the way home!). For my first attempt at mile repeats, I was pleasantly surprised to see how fast I could push myself, especially in humidity like we have today. And I am even more pleasantly surprised to find that I don't have anything on the old training schedule tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me me, I'm off to find a burly-looking fellow who wouldn't mind carrying me to the office today...

The Return of the Vibrams, and My Scientist Persona

Only three on the agenda for today, I suppose so I have fresh legs for tomorrow's mile repeats. But what fun would that be? Naturally I decided to really put my calves through the paces with a Vibram run - my first in months. 3.3 miles should leave me suitably unable to walk, let alone run, around the track tomorrow morning. Good times.

Fun fact: Tonight is a good night to check out the Perseid Meteor Shower. If you live someplace that isn't Manhattan, take your run outside this evening and look up! If you live here in NYC, you're sorta screwed, since it's pretty bright out, and since looking up at the sky instead of being aware of your surroundings means you're 67% more likely to get knifed. It's science.

Sunday Wrap Up: Fast By Association

It's been a busy week, chock-full of quality runs and delicious beers. Today, I bring you the most notable occurrences in each of these categories. Firstly, on beers...

This week I finally conducted the much-anticipated, highly scientific, double-blind study, coming soon to a peer-reviewed academic journal near you: The Great International Heineken Taste Test.

USA at left, Holland at right

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, the American Heineken was more orange in color than it's Dutch counterpart, and based on number of bubbles present, was also more carbonated. Though the latter could be due to the fact that the Dutch version has been sitting in my fridge for 6 weeks...The Dutch version also gave off a "beery" aroma that reminded me of high school.

In addition to tasting each beer personally, I also enlisted the help of Kathryn, who knows her way around a bar room.

Conducting observation and assessment in the lab

Kath's findings were as follows: Pint A seemed diluted as compared with Pint B.

My evaluation: Pint B was diluted as compared with Pint A.

Results: Inconclusive

Pint A was the American Heineken and Pint B the Dutch. I thought I was onto something when I determined that the Dutch version was less potent and had more of classic "cheap beer" taste; in Holland, it is a "cheap beer," (if we're operating under the assumption that cheap=domestic, which is a flawed conclusion on its own, but P.S. I'm not actually a qualified scientist so chill). But then Kath poked holes in my assessment by coming to precisely the opposite conclusion. Either way, we got to drink a couple beers on a Wednesday night, and as such, I deem this study a success!

On the running front, my long run this weekend was back down to 14 miles, which I handled without incident on Saturday. Well that's not entirely true; I didn't bring a drop of water along with me, and given that I was out in Connecticut and not in Manhattan, Land of the Water Fountain, all I could think about after mile 8 was finding a friendly home owner washing his car or watering his garden who might give me a drink from his hose. I finally resorted to taking a detour and pit stop at the Stamford Nature Center at mile 12, where I asked the attendant if they might have a restroom with a faucet from which I could take a drink. "Why don't you just... jog up that way?" he gestured, as if a woman out for a run on a Saturday morning was the single strangest thing he'd ever scene. "Just don't jump in the pond to cool off or anything." Duly noted, sir.

Again this weekend, I swapped my long and short runs, which meant I had an enjoyable Sunday recovery run on tap for today. Fortunately, I was also joined by my Uncle John, who, I would like to go on record as pointing out, is the Actual, Original Walsh Family Beer Runner. He is also the proud owner of a 2:27 marathon PR. It's worth spelling it out here: that's one hour and twenty minutes faster than my PR. No big deal...

It was great to log a few recovery miles with Uncle John and absorb both stories and training tips from him. In my book, any guy who has run with, and beaten, Jim Ryun is worth listening to. So long as that means I'm not the one who has to run 5:06 mile repeats...

To the Wrap Up!

Number of Miles Run This Week: 35. The hill repeats this week were tough mentally and physically, but otherwise this week was pretty easy. When Training Peaks emailed me this morning with my workouts for the next seven days, they let me know that "This week is a big week." Mile repeats, a marathon pace run, and an 18 miler?! Pretty much I'm hoping Sunday lasts forever today...

Number of Beers Consumed This Week: 15. As I was logging my 14 miler yesterday and letting my mind wander, I thought to myself, "So far this week I've had fewer beers than miles I'll be running in one day!" Thankfully I rectified that imbalance last night.

Types of Beers Consumed This Week: This week was Heineken heavy; in addition to the data-driven study described above, I also enjoyed a couple Heinekens at the Beach Boys concert on Thursday night (I wish they all could be Amsterdamian girls? AMSTERDAMES!). The Sierra Nevada Summer Ale is a delight, especially at a picnic like last night's, but to be honest, given how thirsty I was when I finished Saturday's run, I sucked back Bud Lights like they were Gatorade. Yeast is totally an electrolyte, right?

As a reward for suffering through the coming week's workouts, I'm leaving for a week in Maine Saturday. Lobster-wrestling totally counts as cross training. Have a great week, hombres.

Hill Repeats Hill Repeats Hill Repeats

(Get it? That was repetitive? "Claire drrrrrk.")

A note before we get started: this post is entirely about running. No beer here. If you've come to my blog for beer-related things, you might want to come back tomorrow. Or alternatively, play a drinking game as you read the post below. Drink every time you read the word "repeat." You probably won't be able to read by the end.

This morning marked the first in a series of workouts I have been totally dreading. For as long as I have been a runner, I have run. But that is it. I have tracked my distance and my pace, but haven't bothered with speed workouts or hill workouts or mile repeats or any of that stuff. I just run. But for as long as I have been a runner, I have not been a Boston qualifier, so if this fancy stuff is my golden ticket, then call me... whatever the name of the little boy who is the main character in Willie Wonka. The one with the golden ticket. Are you still following?

Anyway, I headed up to the Park extra early this morning, having been unable to get a solid night's sleep as I tossed and turned thinking of this stupid run. Fun fact: the subways appear to run on an actual schedule early in the morning, and arriving to the station at 5:25 does not mean one will be able to board a train before 5:41. Thankfully, there were 2 rats on the tracks that were able to entertain me in their foulness and soon enough I was headed uptown.

The workout began with a two mile warm up. Two miles, I can do. Great! I headed into the Park and made my way counterclockwise to the top of the Harlem Hill when Carl beeped that I'd done the requisite preparations. So now I do hills? But I just got to the top of a hill!

Oooh, symmetry!

Per the instructions emailed to me by the people behind The Plan, I was meant to find a hill that would take me at least 2 minutes to climb, then mark off a short section, about halfway up. Then, I would run 3-4 of the short repeats, jogging back to the bottom for recovery each time, then 3-4 full repeats to the top, jogging back to the bottom each time, and then spring 3-4 short repeats, jogging for recovery. Sprinting uphill? I'm pretty sure the kid in Willie Wonka did not have to do this shit.

My short repeat turned out to be .17 miles, and my intital splits were 1:34, 1:30, and 1:30. Okay, this actually isn't that bad, though if you're familiar with Central Park, you know this hill continues beyond a bend, which means you have to make a turn and continue going uphill. It blows.

The long repeat was .30 miles, and also, a bitch. Splits were 2:45, 2:39, 2:41. At the top of the second long repeat, I turned to jog to the bottom and was delighted to see a woman give me a fist pump and a "Good work!" I almost started crying and asking her to take me home with her. I am too enthusiastic about runners' camaraderie.

Suddenly, I had just 3 repeats to go. Amazing! What's more, I was (pleasantly) surprised at how much distance I was covering; when I first read about the workout, and saw that the planned mileage for the day was 8, I figured that even with the warm up and cool down, I would have to log some extra miles. But the hills were adding up, and because I was so focused on not dying during them, I hadn't even realized. So I guess that's a good thing?

My legs were getting pretty tired, especially my right quad, but I figured with just 3 repeats to go, I should try as hard as I could to fulfill the "sprint" requirement. I ran the first in 1:24, which isn't much faster than my first short repeat, but my level of exertion was high, and I was getting pretty tired. Still, I resolved to keep up my effort. Split two was 1:21. I very nearly threw up. Like, very, very nearly. I headed back downhill as slow as could possibly still be considered a jog and readied myself for the last sprint. 1:22 and puke free. Rock out!

As I started my 2 mile cool down, I could tell that my right quad was really toasted from the workout. I could also tell that I was going to cry tears of joy over my rest day tomorrow. Already looking forward to drinking a beer and spending some quality time with The Stick tonight. There you go, beer people - I couldn't go an entire post without mentioning the good stuff!

Happy Hump Day, friends. I hope my sore quad doesn't prevent me from humping things...