On Boston Training, and General Fitness

Hello and welcome to Day One of Boston Marathon training!  I, for one, am glad it's here.  While I am, generally speaking, not one who needs a goal race as a motivator for fitness, in my efforts to not burn out on running after my two-marathon fall, I may have slid too far in the other direction (that being, in the direction of snooze alarms, bacon-egg-and-cheeses, and wearing sweatpants because they are more comfortable than real pants, not because I am intent on doing any sweating).  I'm ready to chase 3:20 again.  Also, I need blog fodder.

While my weekly mileage since November has been... laughable, my overall level of fitness hasn't seemed particularly diminished.  The 15-20-ish weekly miles I have been running are in the neighborhood of 7:45 to 8:20/mile, and I've kept up weekly cross training (and money spending) in the form of Soul Cycle.  Imagine my surprise then, when I hit the squash court yesterday and was doubled over gasping for breath about 5 minutes in.  My opponent?  Not so much.

In my defense, I had never picked up a squash racquet before yesterday.  In my opponent's defense, I can run for nearly 6 hours at a time, so 5 minutes of squash really shouldn't leave me sucking wind.  Not only was I flirting with "pretending to tie my shoes so I can take a break" levels of fatigue, I couldn't believe how sore my butt got.  My butt!  Something I actually use in my chosen sport! 

It is my sincere hope that my soreness ("squash butt" is evidently A Thing) does not inhibit me from pursuing my Boston Day One workout with gusto.  Or at the very least, with ease, since the prescribed workout is indeed 6 miles at an easy (8:20) pace.

A word about those prescribed workouts: once again, I'll be using a Training Peaks plan.  For a number of years, their Intermediate Marathon Training plan did not fail me.  For this fall season, I bumped it up a notch and went with their Break 3:15 plan.  I failed to break 3:40 in a marathon I'd rather forget about. (though I linked to it there because there is nothing people love more than reading about other people's shortcomings).  But I don't think that was the fault of the plan - I felt adequately prepared and confident in my ability.  To that end, I'll be using the Break 3:15 plan again this season (A Break 3:20 plan is not an option).

That said, I also know Boston is not an easy course.  Net downhill, schmet downhill.  While I'll be training to break 3:15 on Monday, April 21st, I'm also registered for the Sugarloaf Marathon on May 18th, lest the hills of Newton get the best of me.

In conclusion, neither a lifetime of tennis lessons nor 18 races of marathon distance or greater prepared me for 5 minutes on the squash court, and I hope that's not some sort of omen for the Spring racing season.  See you in Hopkinton!

Merry Christmas from PDX

I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday with family and loved ones. And alcohol.



I don't hate the beers available in the Pacific Northwest. I also don't hate drinking as early as 9am, because it's noon according to my New York-based body clock...


Super foggy, super hilly Christmas morning run.


Do good, be good, kick ass. Words to live by.

Adventures In Blood Doping

First and foremost, a huge thanks to everyone who came out to Saturday’s “We’ll Run For Beer!”  Despite a couple of snags (running directly through the holiday market at Columbus Circle wasn’t my best idea…), I think we had another great event.  I’ll do a full recap as soon as I have photos (no seriously, I will. Not like how I said I’d write a recap of a fancy gym I went to in September, or a marathon I paced in October…).

Today though, I want to talk about blood doping.  Sort of. 

Back in October, I went to the doctor for a routine physical.  My results were by and large fine (the doctor was most concerned by the cuts and scars on my back and chest from my sports bra chafe), though my blood work did come back a bit abnormal.  My potassium was elevated, and my B-12 was low.  Having gone in for this physical the morning after I ran my second marathon in 8 days, I wasn’t all that surprised by the potassium imbalance; I was surely dehydrated, and had been subsisting on a diet of Gatorade and bananas for 48 hours.  I was instructed to drink water, take a B-12 supplement, and return in a month.

On my next visit, the potassium issue had rectified itself, but even after 4 weeks of supplemental B-12 (4 weeks of having it in my possession, about 4 days of actually taking it…), my B-12 was still low (230 somethings per something; the doctor reported less than 350 somethings per something as being low.  Also the doctor probably knows what the unit of measure is).  The doctor asked that I return for a B-12 injection.  I laughed, because it reminded me of the term “hot beef injection,” and I’m a middle school boy.

Upon regaining composure, I went to the internet to see what B-12 deficiency meant, because, obviously.  B-12 deficiency can have some unpleasant if benign sounding consequences, including numbness or tingling in the arms and legs, weakness, and loss of balance (Source).  Oh but also, it could be a sign of pernicious anemia, which results in diarrhea, constipation, fatigue, loss of appetite, pale skin (um, hi), problems concentrating (that’s the internet’s fault), shortness of breath, swollen and red tongue, bleeding gums, confusion, and depression. And also you need red blood cells if you want to live.  So there’s that.

But perhaps most interesting was this tidbit: “Except in people with a vitamin B-12 deficiency, no evidence shows that vitamin B-12 supplements increase energy or improve athletic performance.” (Source)  EXCEPT IN PEOPLE WITH A VITAMIN B-12 DEFICIENCY.  That’s me!

Eager to test out my newly acquired, B-12 resultant super athletic prowess, I hit the treadmill after work yesterday evening for a little fitness test.  Oh just kidding, that was my plan but then I wanted to eat hummus on the couch with my cat instead.  So much for B-12 increasing energy in people with deficiency...

But then this morning, having given the B-12 a full 21-ish hours to kick in, I headed out for a run.  I’m not currently training for anything, and have tried to indulge my inner lazy fat ass a bit in the weeks leading up to Boston training (which kicks off 12/30!).  My weekly mileage has been hovering around 20 miles for about the last 8 weeks (hence the lack of blogging – nothing to see here).  If ever there were a control for an experiment in athletic ability, I should think this is it. 

I decided I’d run a full loop of the park, for a total of about 8 miles door to door.  That’s a couple miles more than I usually run during the work week, but nothing crazy enough to land me another stress fracture.  I also decided I wouldn’t look at my Garmin for this endeavor, and instead see how I stacked up post-run, as compared with my paces for my usual morning runs.  So my metrics were: a) how do I feel, which is not a metric, and b) how do my paces compare to paces on other runs on different routes and different times and during different weather conditions.  Clearly this was a very scientific study.

Here is this morning's run:

Don't use these maps to stalk me - my mom gets scared about that.  Anyway, my B-12 boosted run resulted in an average pace of 8:13.  I felt delightful for the first 5 miles (possibly because I was running an average of 8:13 minute miles...), and decidedly less so for the final 3.

By contrast, here is a run Tuesday morning of last week:

7:49 average pace.  As for how I felt, I don't really remember anything noteworthy about this, but according to Dailymile, I felt "great" and my comments were "great running weather this week!"

To ensure these results weren't a fluke, I decided to check against one more morning run, this one from two weeks ago:

Average pace: 7:52.  According to Dailymile, the morning I ran this, there was a "real feel" of 16 degrees.  I still gave it the toothy "great" smiley face.

In conclusion, B-12 is a hoax and has only deleterious impacts on athletic performance.  That said, if anyone from Aetna is reading this, please cover the cost of this injection anyway. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

My dad referred to my Turkey Trot hat as being "a turkey erection," if that's any indication of what our dinner table conversation is like.

I'm thankful I'm not a Packers fan. Have a great holiday!

The Big Reveal: We'll Run For Beer Route

This weekend, being the first I was in town in God knows how long (woe is me, people invite me to their weddings and also I go on a lot of vacations…), I took advantage of an open calendar and did a number of productive things.  Some were necessary but not particularly exciting: I scoured the tub, toilet, and shower.  Some were not necessary but very exciting: I went to Stone Barns and participated in turkey herding.  Some struck a balance between both: I had a business meeting at 7am on Sunday morning that took place over the course of a 14 mile run.

14 miles is the farthest I’ve run since the Wineglass Marathon back on October 6^th.  14 miles at a 7:45 pace is not something I’ve done since… oh God.  I probably averaged a 7:45  for the first 14 miles of the Hamptons Marathon in September, but that was more like 7 miles at a 7:15 pace and 7 miles at a “someone put me out of my misery” pace.  The good news is that even pacing feels a hell of a lot better, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover I could both hold the pace and a conversation about work the entire time.  I was also pleasantly surprised to discover that snot rockets were acceptable during this business meeting.  No word yet on whether or not this practice is also allowed when business takes place within the confines of the office, but I’m leaning towards no.

A solid (and much-needed, from a confidence-boosting, I-don’t-wanna-be-starting-from-scratch-when-Boston-training-starts-next-month perspective) long run was just one of the necessary and exciting accomplishments of my weekend in New York.  I also plotted out the next installment of We’ll Run For Beer.

 

Click to enlarge and marvel at my MS Paint skillz.
That freehand part in the Park is legit, right?!

We'll be meeting at Columbus Circle at noon on Saturday, December 7th.  As you can see, we’ll be hitting up the Upper East Side this go around.  A bit about the course features:

Subway Inn: This is a horrifying dive of a place.  I once went here with a date in cocktail attire and I think the music quite literally stopped when we sat down at the bar.  I have every confidence that, even clad in spandex and wicking fabric, we won’t be underdressed

Session 73: If you’re a preppy suburban kid of a certain age who lived in a one bedroom converted to 3 bedroom immediately after college, Session 73 needs no explanation. If you’re not, I’m not going to tell you what Session 73 is like because I suspect you won’t go.  As I (barely) recall, I went here at about 2:30am once because I wanted to go dancing.  I may have embarked on this adventure alone. Please don’t make me dance by myself this time.

Trinity Pub: Compared to Session 73, Trinity Pub is downright refined.   It’s where preppy suburban kids go when they realize they’ve become adults.

ABV:  This little spot is the nicest of the bunch, which is somewhat shameful since we’ll be pretty drunk by this point.  It’s also technically in East Harlem, which is home to the Genovese crime family, so try not to get lost.

If you’ve never participated in We’ll Run For Beer, the basics are as follows:

• Wear clothes for being active outdoors in December.  Sneakers, sweats, spandex. 

• Bring cash and an ID.  Please don’t attend if you’re not 21.  Not because I don’t love you, but because I don’t want to be reminded that, unlike 20 year olds, I’m waaaay out of the acceptable age bracket for making the rounds of the Upper East Side.

• Be nice to each other.  I try to bring lots of different groups of people together for these, because selfishly it makes my life easier when all my friends come to me.  This means you’ll probably be meeting new people.  Don’t be a dick to them.  If you really don’t like someone, just email me after and we can talk shit about them over the privacy of Gmail.

• Be safe. Running is a hazardous endeavor on its own, and that’s compounded by alcohol.  Having tripped and skinned my palms during the second edition of this, I’m speaking from experience here.  Please be mindful of cars, Citibikes, pedestrians, preppy rapists, uneven sidewalks, drunk frat boys, Mafioso, and other natural and man-made obstacles you will encounter throughout the day.  Unlike a race director, I am not insured.  Also, I’m not rich, so suing me won’t be worth the hassle.

• Email me at willrunforbeerblog@gmail.com if you're interested in participating.

Thanks for your support of running and the Manhattan nightlife industry.  See you on December 7th!

The Best Run I Didn't Know I Had

Last weekend, I was in Vermont for a wedding. I went for a run around some subdivision in Essex Junction that was largely unremarkable. Or so I thought, until I came home and uploaded my Garmin data.




Completely unbeknownst to me at the time, I ran in a penis shape. This is my life's work.

Greetings from the Great North

I'm in Minneapolis for a conference this week. Here's what the weather is like in Minneapolis:



Cool. Literally.

While much of the running gear I packed won't quite hold up in those conditions (how do the scrawny old men who dominate the mid-winter shorts-wearer niche of runner do it?), I did squeeze one set of winter-suitable gear into my suitcase. And as luck would have it, there happens to be a 5k "fun run/walk" in conjunction with this conference of Thursday, according to the conference program! Here is how that discovery went down:

Boss: Oh on Thursday, there's a 5k. You should do it!

Me: Okay!

Boss: You have to win.

Nothing like potential unemployment as a motivator. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go hit the treadmill and do speed work for the first time in a month to get ready for Thursday...

It's Coming

The long awaited next installment of the semi-occasional beer run series, We'll Run For Beer.

Saturday, December 7th.

Details to follow...

I'm saying all this is a dramatic movie trailer voice while I type it.

Product Review: Blowfish for Hangovers

Klout recently sent me a couple envelopes of Blowfish to try. For those who don't know, Klout is a service that, um, does something with your contributions to social media and, um sends you things? I don't exactly know what it is or what the purpose is, but from what I gather, if you tweet enough asinine things, Klout determines you to be an "influencer" and sends you products it deems topical to your life. Thus far, I've received cat food, some kind of knock off Skinny Girl cosmo mix, and Blowfish, which is marketed as a hangover cure. This is a stark and depressing assessment of my life and my sphere of influence. On the plus side, the internet indicates that the "single cat ladies who drink too much" cohort is a large one...

Having had 2 margaritas followed by several more than 2 IPAs last night, I woke up this morning feeling... not my best. I stumbled into the bathroom and gulped down 2 Advil when I woke up, after which I spied the envelopes of Blowfish in my bathroom. Despite very fine print and very compromised fine motor skills, I was able to both hold the packet up to my face and read the ingredients, which include aspirin and caffeine. Since my recent blood work indicated elevated liver enzymes (allegedly just a two-marathon-in-two-weeks response, but better safe than sorry...), I decided this morning wasn't the day to put my liver through the wringer by taking aspirin on top of Advil, so instead I put pants on, and took myself across the street to get a cup of coffee and an egg and cheese sandwich.

After a solid 3 and a half hours of couch time/Advil digestion time and no real improvement to my condition, I decided to up the ante with Blowfish. The instructions (again, the print is REALLY small, so it's entirely possible this isn't accurate) suggest you drop 2 tablets into 16 oz. of water and drink as soon as the fizzing stops.





Note that the "pants" I put on were of the "sweat" variety. Single cat lady status: confirmed. Also, I dare you to read that, especially through eyes glued shut with last night's mascara in a dark bathroom.

Having recently been taking Airborne on account of the post-race plague, I was fully prepared to drink a murky, fizzy, slurry and get on with my life. Much to my surprise, once the Blowfish dissolved, it looked more like Sprite. I braced myself as I brought it to my lips (that's what she said) and took down about half a glass in one go. It wasn't strictly medicinal in taste, but Sprite it was not (worth noting: OMG how good is soda when you're hungover?).





Hangover supplies: Blowfish, coffee, and iPad. Not pictured: egg sandwich (already consumed).

I don't know if the Blowfish just brought me up to a pain relief and caffeine threshold not previously reached through Advil and coffee, but holy hell this stuff really worked! No kidding, I went from useless lump watching Face the Nation (proof that I'm old: hungover from like 6 drinks over the course of 5 hours, and watching political talk shows...) to full on vacuuming, furniture rearranging, toilet bowl cleaning productive human being. (Claire, are you sure you want to broadcast to the internet your standards for a successful Sunday? LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES!). While I think a more controlled experiment must be conducted to rule out the possibility egg sandwiches work THAT well at alleviating hangovers (and let's be honest; there's a reason they're the standard bearer for weekend breakfasts), I think this stuff is definitely worth your attention. Klout sent it to me for free, but I've spent my own money on WAY less useful things (for example: my cat friend, Dorito), so this is a worthy investment, and it's only a couple bucks. I've definitely seen it in the check out aisle at Duane Reade, so I'd suggest picking some up on your next trip and giving it a go.

Any hangover remedies you swear by? You'd think at this point I'd be an expert, but beyond the usuals described above, and the diner beverage trifecta (coffee, Coke, water), I don't have any magic tricks. Once last winter I was so hungover after a Christmas party, I made my mom hold cold compresses over my eyes. She was not impressed. I was 28, for the record.

P.S. It's worth noting that, despite the fact that only about 3 people read this blog, and one is my mom from two different computers, people sometimes offer to send me free shit to review. I almost never take them up on it, because I have absolutely no interest in running the Pretty Princess 5k on a comped entry and reviewing it. But this one actually seemed topical, because, duh. Don't get scared that I'm going to start accepting free shit all the time and writing about it. Unless you're interested in sending me free egg sandwiches. In which case, try to schedule delivery for Saturday and Sunday mornings, extra credit if they'll arrive immediately after a wedding...

P.P.S. Always drink in moderation. And do as I say, not as I do.

Race Report: Hamptons Marathon

On Saturday, September 28^th, I ran my 15^th Marathon at the Hamptons Marathon in East Hampton, New York.  It was not my best day, but I will try not to let that color my race report, since it’s really not the race’s fault.  But if you want to read a unadulterated positive report, head on over the Ali on the Run, who ran it in 2011 and agreed (per her recap) that is was tough but sure seems pretty happy in her race photos.  Me? 

Decidedly less so…

(If that picture didn't make you LOL, something is wrong with you.  I can't stop laughing.  MY FACE!  MY T-REX ARMS!  MY POSTURE!  I'm hunched over to about 5'6" here.  That's 5 inches of hunch!)

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 

Pre-Race:

The Hamptons Marathon naturally gets a lot of NYC-based runners, so packet pick up was held at Jack Rabbit on the Upper West Side for two days during race week, which was a nice touch and left me with one less thing to do once I got out East.  While it’s less than 2 hours from Manhattan (when there’s no traffic, which is never) and a race morning drive to the start would be feasible, I elected to take Friday off and drive out in the afternoon to give myself as stress-free a weekend as possible.  This was, after all, my A race for the season.  Neat…

I stayed at The Atlantic in Southampton, which isn’t too far down Montauk Highway from that seafood joint that’s on the left side of the road right as you’re first entering the Hamptons.  You know that one, right?  Has anyone ever been there?  Anyway, being right on Montauk Highway was convenient in the sense that I couldn’t possibly get lost, but as you know if you’ve ever been out there, you could probably wait to make a left turn off Montauk Highway for longer than it takes to run a marathon. 

Also, Southampton is not at all close to East Hampton, and further still from the race day shuttle in Amagansett.  This worked fine for me because I had a rental car, but don’t stay in Southampton if you’re planning to take the Jitney.  Do make “it’s Jitney, bitch” jokes regardless of what mode of transportation you use.

Okay, so Friday, check in, drive down the road to get a slice of ‘za, swing by 7-11 for some bread, peanut butter, and a six pack, go back to my hotel, lay out my bib person, have some pre-race deep thoughts, and generally feel pretty freaking good about the race.  My training was not perfect, but it was pretty stinking good – more 20+ milers than usual, nailed my GMP runs up to 10 miles like it ain’t no thang, killed it at the track, etc.  Basically I’m planning my post-race victory party as I’m chowing down on the pasta I brought from my apartment.  I have two beers and call it a night, ready to murder number 15.

Race Day:

I wake up at Zero Dark Thirty and see that the hotel lobby hasn’t yet prepared coffee, which is forgivable since bars are only just at closing time at this point.  So I dash across Montauk Highway to the gas station across the street, where a very silent shopkeeper seems somewhat concerned that cheery girl in a sweatsuit has come looking for coffee at 4:30am.  He definitely thought I was on drugs.  I return to my room, suit up, spread some pb on some bread, and hop in the car. 

Here is a fun fact: Montauk Highway has traffic even at 5:30am.  Not heavy, mid-summer Saturday-levels of traffic, but traffic nonetheless.  The drive to Amagansett is a straight shot down the highway, so I jammed out and ate my toast for 40 minutes and then parked in the designated beach parking lots and boarded a bus to the start.  A+ logistics, folks.

The race starts at the Spring School in East Hampton, and the gym at the school was open for runners (and race day bib pick up), so I took my coffee and sat on the floor in there for awhile listening to tunes and getting myself in the zone.  I was even able to replenish my coffee, gratis, at the start, which is a much appreciated perk.  Porta potties were plentiful, and I was the very first person to use mine!  Sorry, second person…

Kick off was at 8am, so I checked my gear around 7:45 and headed towards to start to do some striders, mostly just to stay warm.  I situated myself around the 7:30/mile sign within the corrals, where I started chatting with a local runner.  I think his named was Joe, or possibly Tom, and I’m sorry I can’t remember, because he was totally a nice dude.  We swapped race stories in the corral, he briefed me on the course (which he described as being “worse than Boston,” which I probably should have taken into consideration, but what can you do?), and when the gun went off, we found ourselves step-by-step.

JoeTom had noted that I was wearing a 3:20 pace bracelet, and explained that he ran a 3:20:00 as his PR in Boston.  I mentioned I hadn't yet run a 3:20:anything, but was hoping today was the day (spoiler alert: not the day).  He didn't plan to run that fast in the Hamptons, but was happy to run with me for as long as he could.  He went so far as to say he'd be dying by the half if he kept up. (Spoiler alert: that was me who was dying).

We ran a quick first mile (7:19), but that's pretty customary for me, and by mile two, we settled into a spot on 7:37.  I was feeling good, the conversation was making the miles tick by, and when I saw a 7:41 mile 5, I decided to pull away from JoeTom in an effort to stay on pace.  While I don't think this was a critical error, since it's not like I started sprinting away, I never again felt comfortable for the rest of the day.

Mile 1: 7:19

Mile 2: 7:37

Mile 3: 7:27

Mile 4: 7:35

Mile 5: 7:41

The weather was warmer than I would have liked, but only by about 5 or 10 degrees, and the beginning of the course is mostly shaded.  I was hydrated, had eaten breakfast, and had pasta, pizza, and beer the night before, but somewhere around mile 6 or 7, the check engine light went on, the air was let out of the tires, the tank went empty, the engine sputtered, and every other car metaphor for "holy shit, I can't go on" set in.  For the first mile, I figured it was just nerves or something.  I had done GMP runs longer than 7 miles, so there was no way I had over exerted myself.  I tried to shake it off and get myself together.  I fought for another few miles, during which 7:40s felt like 5:40s, and talked myself off a ledge.  "You have some time in the bank, you're fine."  But I knew I was not fine.  And also, I was terrified.  I had been tired in a race before (it's a marathon, after all), but never this soon, and even in the final miles of my PR, it didn't feel anything like this.

Mile 6: 7:38

Mile 7: 7:31

Mile 8: 7:40

Mile 9: 7:35

Mile 10: 7:47

At this point, I was still on pace, but was coming to terms with the fact that it wouldn't be possible to stay that way.  I pledged to ease up until the half split and reassess.  Unfortunately, miles 9.5 to at least 15 were in direct sun, and while it wasn't all that warm out, the sun beating down on me certainly didn't help me feel any better.  

There's a 180 degree turn at the 10 mile mark, and on my way out, I passed JoeTom headed towards 10.  He gave me a wave.  I gave him an "I'm fucking dying."  

Shortly thereafter, I started thinking about dropping out.  I knew I had another marathon the following weekend, and there wasn't really a sense in wasting myself for a mediocre finish and risk jeopardizing that race.  Oddly enough, I felt preemptive guilt and embarrassment  having spent much of my time in the start reading tweets from 78,453 members of the New York Runner Army who were eagerly anticipating my race results.  In actuality it was more like 5, and they were heart warming tidings of good luck and not "don't blow it, chump" sentiments, but nonetheless, I knew I'd eventually have to admit defeat to them.  This was a totally dumb way to feel, but we're in the tree of trust here, right?

Despite the preemptive embarrassment,  by 11.5 I committed to dropping at the half.  13.1 miles would be a nice long run ahead of the following weekend's marathon, and for arbitrary reasons, at least getting half way there seemed like something.

I spent the next mile and a half thinking "holy shit, I can't believe I'm really going to DNF.  But especially, I can't believe I'm okay with DNFing."  Each split now began with an 8, and still felt like agony.  

I crossed the 13.1 timing mat, incidentally exactly on pace for a 3:20, and saw nary a race official in sight.  So I continued on, assuming eventually I'd find someone who could direct me to a med tent or saggin' wagon.  As I pressed on, the runner next to me struck up a conversation.  "How's it going?"  "Not my best day," I told him.  Understatement of the year.  And this was a year I ran 39.3 miles on a broken foot...

Finally, at 14.5 we came upon an aid station with porta potties and a cop.  Having already thrown in the towel and just looking for a way to do so officially, I decided I might as well stop to pee.  The porta potty was occupied, but I didn't mind waiting.  I was DNFing; what difference did it make?

After a pee, I moseyed on over to the cop, to have that fateful conversation:  

Me: Hi.  I'd like to drop out.

Him: Okay...

Me: So do you know how I can get to the finish?

Him: Um...

Me: Is there a way I can get a ride?  Like, will you be going there eventually?

Him: Oh I'll be here awhile.

Me: Okay, so do you know where the next med tent is?

Him: Um...

Me: Should I just keep going until I get to one?

Him: Yeah.  Yeah just keep going and you'll get to one.

In all, I do think this race is well organized and volunteers were totally on top of their game.  But there was a pretty crucial communication break down somewhere if a uniformed cop on the course couldn't give me any information on medical aid.  

Without much other choice, I pressed on, having spent about 10 minutes between miles 14 and 15.

Mile 11: 8:05

Mile 12: 8:01

Mile 13: 8:19

Mile 14: 8:24

Mile 15: 9:18, and I'm pretty sure I actually stopped my watch once I decided I was bailing and stopped to pee.

I don't have a whole lot to say about the rest of this race, since I ran it begrudgingly.  It's mostly rolling hills, though since I was feeling terrible, it seemed way more uphill than not.  At mile 18 my Garmin reset itself, so I have no data beyond that point, which is probably for the best.  I figured if I made it to mile 20, I might as well just finish the damn thing.  Around mile 20, we hit a dirt path, which was a nice change, and JoeTom had told me in the corrals not to hold back from that point on, since the course was essentially downhill from there.  While I tried to heed his advice and pick it up for the last 6 miles, any effort to do so was futile - my legs had been stone for close to 13 miles by that point.  

Mile 16: 8:51

Mile 17: 8:50

Mile 18: 9:07

Eventually, I crossed the finish line in 3:42:09, a perfectly fine time had I not been racing for a 3:20.  In fact, it was my 5th fastest marathon.  But fifth fastest is a long way from first fastest, especially when you've put in the work.

As I stumbled through the shoot and towards my gear, a man stopped to offer me a bottle of water.  I hesitated to take it when I realized, by the medal around his neck, he was also a finisher, and was offering me his own water.  "Nothing is given, everything is earned," he told me.  He also maybe looked kind of like Jesus, but I was really tired and in a fragile emotional state where I was looking for meaning in things, so that part could be wrong.  But he really did say that.

Post Script:

As I've already mentioned, I was surprised I wasn't more upset about how the day played out, but from training to fueling and hydration to execution of race strategy, I really can't identify anything I would have done differently.  I will tell you, in the spirit of over-sharing on the internet, that I peed blood for a bit afterwards, which isn't awesome, and my post-race muscle fatigue was definitely higher than normal - potentially scary signs of something more than run-of-the-mill marathon wear-and-tear.  I took super good care of myself in the week that followed, and knew I'd be taking it easy at Wineglass, but I was really conscientious about hydrating and eating properly (and taking it easy on the beers) while I recovered, just to be sure. 

As it were, I happened to have a physical recently, post race, which turned up an electrolyte imbalance in the form of high potassium.  It's only moderately elevated, and my kidney function is fine, but I definitely took a beating in the Hamptons that I did not anticipate.  Concerned phone call from my mother in 3, 2, 1...

I probably won't return to this race because I'm the kind of person who holds a grudge, but if you're in New York, it's really easy to get to, a scenic if not "fast" course, and held at a time of year when weather should be favorable.  It's also not a very competitive field - the winner in my AG (25-29) ran a 3:30, so if that appeals to you, go for it.

As for me, my disappointing finish obviously didn't deter me from future marathons, since I've since run another.  And my failed pursuit of 3:20 has only made me more determined to get it in the Spring.  So here's to a solid spring season, and to the next great adventure! But first, we rest.

The Post-Race Plague

Like clockwork, it happens: the race is run, the celebratory beers are consumed, the medal is hung in a far off corner, and life gets back to normal. Until three days later, when your body is like "oh, we're done with this shit for the moment? THANK GOD!" and begins a slow and steady decline.

I woke up this morning with a scratchy, meaty throat and a stuffy nose - clearer signs than the pile of used Kinvaras in my closet that my marathon season is over (no, Claire, don't drive to Newport on Sunday to make it a marathon hat trick...).  I now owe you 2 race reports, though one I'll leave to my boon companion and instead write a report on being a pacer (spoiler alert: I learned that if I'm going to spend a few hours with a friend, I'd strongly prefer to spend them not yelling at each other).  Also I said I'd write a love letter to Equinox in LA, where I went a month ago.  Yeah, yeah, IOU and what have you.

And since I can't cross a finish line without someone (Cate) asking me "what's next?," my (soft) racing plans are as follows:

April 2014 - Boston Marathon
May 2014 - Sugarloaf Marathon (this race is on the "Nightlife" page of the mountain's website.  It's basically made for me)
Fall 2014 - As yet undetermined 50 miler, and if you have recommendations, please send them my way

If you need me, I'll be in the Airborne aisle at Duane Reade.

Up Next: Recovery, and Racing

After the Hamptons Marathon, lots of folks suggested I quickly line up a Plan B, to capitalize on my training and not have to wait and start from scratch again next season. What I've neglected to mention to this point is that I've been registered for another fall marathon for several months. And it is next weekend.

But hold your horses: I'm not going for 3:20 next weekend for a number of reasons. Wineglass didn't end up on my race calendar as a secret plan B, stowed away in my back pocket for just such a circumstance as I find myself in today. Believe me, there was no plan B; I've been visualizing a sub 3:20 at the Hampton since approximately August 1, and I fully expected to be spending the week between Hamptons and Wineglass celebrating my 3:20 badassedry. Ouch. But anyway, Wineglass found its way into my life again this season because a 26.2 mile jaunt with a friend sounded like a lovely Sunday to me, so I agreed to run it, but not race, at a pace around my long run pace. This was, of course, before I raced in the Hamptons, where my finish time was still around long run pace, but my post-race legs most assuredly felt like they'd worked much harder than that.

Thus, I am spending this week in extreme recovery mode, all the while trying not to let last weekend's demons trick me into thinking I can't hang for 26.2 conversational miles. Because I can, and I have, and I will. Plus, Wineglass was my first BQ, and I am confident that magic will work wonders on my psyche in ways listening to Avicii on repeat before last weekend's race failed to do. In hindsight, perhaps a song whose lyrics are "wake me up when it's all over" didn't really set the tone for race day domination...

So that's the immediate plan for the future. Beyond that, though, I have no intention of going for 3:20 again this season. I travel so much as it is that I sometimes forget where I keep the pint glasses in my apartment. After Wineglass, I'm home for a week and then traveling for weddings and work much of the rest of October. I don't have any interest in adding another weekend away to my agenda. And I noticed as I looked up the race results from last weekend (where I found myself 56th and 8th AG, which is definitely not the AG winner spot I envisioned when I woke up Saturday morning), 3 of the top 5 females at Hamptons were 33. I'm 29. One of the great things about the marathon is that my best performances are still ahead of me. I've got years before I peak, and I don't need to rush to get there. I mean, at least let me clear up my adult acne first, Jesus.

Quick and Dirty

But NOT D Goal dirty. The streak continues!

A quick check in to say I ran a 3:41 (ish... My Garmin reset itself at mile 18, but I was pretty close to the gun time). Clearly, this is not what I was hoping for. But unlike my claims last night, I'm actually not mad and embarrassed. Disappointed, sure, but mostly surprised. My training, pacing, nutrition, and hydration were all good. But for whatever reason, I got to mile six and felt like I was running on fumes. That is, I assure you, a terrifying feeling with 20 miles to go. I stayed on pace through 13.1, but knew much before that it wasn't a 3:20 day for me. I actually tried to drop out at 14.5 and save my legs for another day because I was so toasted, but the cop I stopped to talk to was the least helpful human alive and was unable to tell me where I might find the nearest med tent with someone to drive me to the finish. "I guess, keep running and you'll find one."

Luckily nothing was medically wrong with me, and I was able to take his advice. Unluckily, I never did find a med tent. So I slogged it out for all 26.2, with likely the most impressive positive splits the world has ever known.

I thought I'd be much more bummed out about a finish fully 21 minutes slower than anticipated, but I also don't know what I would have done differently, and that takes a bit of responsibility and ensuing guilt off my shoulders, fairly or not. The marathon is a fickle thing, and while I didn't necessarily believe it before today, sometimes you just don't have a good day. If 1 marathon in 15 don't go my way, I still have pretty good odds.

And now I'm drinking a beer in my bathing suit by the pool in the Hamptons. My life is not so bad.

Final Thoughts on Fifteen

Greetings from Southampton!



Someone asked me earlier this week how I felt going into tomorrow's race, and I offered a simple "I feel good." And I do. Also I feel a little damp, since one of my most unpleasant taper symptoms is unfathomable night sweats. But mostly, I feel good. And feeling good feels good.

Running and I have had a tough go of it this year, physically and emotionally. There were times when I didn't want to leave my apartment, let alone go for a run. And there were times I wanted nothing more than to sprint and sweat and stomp up Harlem Hill, and instead I spent my time trying not to stomp on Dorito's tail with my surgical boot. Finally, I feel like I'm back at the sweet spot. I don't have any profound thoughts on how or why the pendulum swung so widely for me this year, but I'm grateful it seems to have settled back in the middle.



So then, let's get to it - Race Day Goals:

A Goal: 3:20. This is better than a PR (I only need a 3:23 for that), but this is what I've been targeting all season long. My GMP runs, my tempo runs, my 800s were all build on a 3:20 marathon. It still seems fast as fuck to run 7:37 miles for 26.2 of 'em.

B Goal: Sub 3:27. I ran a 3:27 in Rehoboth last December on half assed training and a long course (not "my Garmin said it was long;" the course was mismeasured), so I'd like to think I can beat it on pretty respectable training and a map that indicates it is actually 26.2 miles this time (true story: I just tried to fact check myself and discovered the map in my packet is of the half marathon course...) Any improvement on my Rehoboth time will also better my corral placement at Boston.

C Goal: Sub 3:45. If things get ugly, I'll use tomorrow's race as a long training run and shoot for 3:45. While it will still be a productive day, I will be mad and embarrassed if it comes to this.

D Goal: Don't shit self. I will be more embarrassed if it comes to this.

And that's all she wrote. Thanks for sticking with me, running with me, and drinking with me, and a special thanks to those of you who consistently do all three. Here's to the next great adventure!

Greetings From Race Week!

And just like that, number 15 is less than a week away.  My training was not perfect, and I'd be lying if I said my taper dreams didn't involve recurring stress fractures (also, one night I dreamt I was going to jail for 4 days for being a passenger in a car driven by someone under the influence, and my chief concern in this dream was how I would manage to reschedule a date without letting my date know I was going to jail.  That was weird..).  But on the whole, I'm feeling pretty confident about Saturday's race.

I meannnnnn, maybe too confident...

I'll be back on Friday with some race day goals and other deep thoughts.  In the interim, I'll be lying awake at night, finding meaning in the lyrics of Miley Cyrus' "We Can't Stop" and being brought to tears by that Melissa Harris-Perry promo where she talks about her dad. Taper mania is neat like that...

Brew Review: Slumbrew Porter Square Porter

Thank god for the Internet, otherwise I would not have known what season it is!  Oh actually it's not fall for another few days, and I'd like to take this moment to reiterate that pumpkin flavored beer is the official drink of Al Queda (trust me; I read a lot of Politico).

Now that we have that out of the way, tonight I bring you a brew review that is topical for a number of reasons (ordinarily these brew reviews are completely arbitrary, FYI. You'll get what I decide to review and you'll like it). Despite the fact that it's not officially Fall, it's actually starting to feel like it here in New York, which is nice considering it was 100 degrees 6 days ago and I basically have my paycheck directly deposited to ConEd from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

True life: I wore long sleeves running this morning!

With the weather cooling off, it's high time we break out the heartier, darker beers: porters and stouts and maybe a good, nutty brown ale or two (let me reiterate: keep your dirty vegetables out of my beer during this and any other season). Enter, the Slumbrew Porter Square Porter.



While I do have a handful of seasonally appropriate beers in my fridge right now, I picked this one specifically for a reason:  Porter Square is a neighborhood in Cambridge, which is a suburb of Boston, which is a place that is front of mind for me this week.

I realize that justification was tenuous at best. Nonetheless, in honor of my acceptance into my third Boston Marathon, tonight I cracked open this treat.

I acquired this beer a couple weeks ago in Maine. The little market up the street from our house sells an odd assortment of homemade whoopee pies, gourmet dog treats, and craft beers, and a few selections from Slumbrew caught my eye. Not only was I unfamiliar with the brewery, based in Ipswich, Mass, but several of their beers were noted as having high rankings on Beer Advocate. Since I was flying straight from Maine to LA for work, I asked my parents to bring a few bottles home for me ("I'll pay you back!" My dad expressly pointed out that he's had bottles of wine cheaper than this $6.99 beer. I will let you be the judge about what that says about his status as a oenophile.)

Per the label, the Porter Square Porter is brewed with cocoa powder and conditioned with cacao nibs, and I believe it. As you can see, it pours almost black with a finger's worth of creamy head. The dark chocolate aroma is obvious - sweet but not cloying.

My experience with chocolatey beers has generally been that they fail to strike the balance between sweet and bitter, generally skewing more towards baking chocolate, which, trust me, don't ever eat straight, even if you're drunk and desperate for a bedtime snack... Thankfully, I think the Porter Square Porter really succeeds here; it tastes like cocoa powder (the real deal, not Swiss Miss) in that it is sweet but not fake, and complex. While the finish is roasted and malty, it's distinctly not a burnt coffee flavor. 

Admittedly, porter isn't my favorite type of beer; there's only so much smoked bourbon maple whatsherface I can take before I feel like I'm drinking a novelty and not a beer.  The Slumbrew Porter Square Porter, however, is accessible even for the non-Porter acolytes among us.  Especially as the weather cools down, I can recommend you warm up from the inside out with this beer.

Foiled

You know what they say about even the best laid plans?  Actually, I didn't know what the end of that idiom was and had to google it.  So for your edification, what they say about the best laid plans is:

The best laid plans of mice and men oft go astray.

 

 

Turning an idiom into reality: nailed it! 

I set off from Maine at 6:30am yesterday and touched down at 4:15pm local time in LA.  With 8pm dinner plans, I was confident I'd get my run in and continue to be on track with my workouts.  If you've ever been to LA, perhaps you can already see the flaw in this logic.

 

I collected my bags and headed to the rental car desk, where I entered my own personal episode of Seinfeld:

 



"You see, you know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's really the most important part of the reservation: the holding. Anybody can just take them."

Luckily I was able to snag at upgrade because they were out of compacts, and I'll be pimping around LA in a sweeeeeeeeeet Mitsubishi Galant for the weekend.

Finally, I hit the 405 (I'm lying - first I got lost in Inglewood.  If you've heard of a place because it's mentioned in a rap song, you probably don't want to get lost there...) and proceeded the 7 miles to my hotel.  It took almost an hour.  As it turns out, people aren't kidding about LA traffic.  Which is weird, since the highway ("freeway" colloquially... because of course LA people need to have their own special name for a highway...) has 6 lanes in each direction.  How do you pick which lane to be in when there are six?!

The point is, by the time I finally arrived at my hotel, dirty from 13 hours of travel, it was 7pm and I had a dinner at 8pm.  The run was not to be.  This, naturally, left me feeling resentful towards LA, because WHY WOULD IT TAKE 3 HOURS TO GET MY BAG, GET MY CAR, AND DRIVE 7 MILES?  HOW DO PEOPLE LIVE LIKE THIS?!  Luckily, my rage was placated by my hotel, which is not terrible:

I feel like I'm on Spring Break! I should wear a wet t-shirt to work!

So, I missed a workout, despite all of the advanced planning I did to make my workouts happen.  But you know what they say about good intentions?  (This one I did know ahead of time).  The road to hell is paved with them.  I was going to hell anyway, so here's hoping there are water fountains along that road, in which case I'll run there and make up those missed 7 miles after all!  How far is it to hell, anyway?

(I did actually make it to the hotel gym this morning before I had to come into the office.  The hotel gym is an Equinox.  So I'll save "A Love Letter to Equinox" for a separate blog post.)

Mainely Running

Greetings from Vacationland!  That's a not-at-all-apt nickname for this state, since I'm actually not on vacation anymore, but working remotely, and unfortunately not the kind of "working remotely" where you check your email three times and call it a day.  But nonetheless, I am in Maine, and did indeed vacation for 3 full days before I planted myself in a chair at the kitchen table and watched with longing as the rest of my family left me to eat blueberry pancakes. 

Here is how this trip has gone thus far:

Friday: Spend 7.5 hours in the car with my sister and brother-in-law.  The novelty of being reunited with them wears off somewhere around New Haven. 6 subsequent hours spent in silence (just kidding - they're my faves!)

Arrive in Camden (not New Jersey) around 11pm, after having made the tragic discovery that Red's is not still open at 10:15pm.  With lobster rolls not an option, have "dinner" of cupcakes, potato chips, and beers.  Go to sleep.

Saturday: Wake up and run 20 miles.  I have to say, despite my pre-run fueling choices, this was a great run.  I've said many times that Camden is my happy place, so while I'm not usually enthusiastic about my long runs, I was perfectly happy to get this done.  Except for everything after mile 15, which is where I ran through town and found my family eating breakfast (without me) and stopped to make them all tell me what they'd ordered.  That was fairly depressing with 5 miles left to run.



Here's the farm I run by.

Eat things that live in the ocean (but not sea lice) and drink local beers (Geary's).  Do a puzzle.  I hate puzzles, but also hate not doing puzzles, so our time was spent alternately swearing and cheering.

My sister and a lobster roll. I am a purist and eat mine sans mayo.

Sunday: Wake up and run 8 miles.  Play mini golf and beat my brother-in-law, which might be my proudest accomplishment, athletic or otherwise, in my entire life.  Eat more sea creatures and drink more local beers.  Turns out the beers don't help with puzzle completion.

Rockland Harbor

Monday: Wake up to pouring rain.  Go to movies to avoid having to do the puzzle, despite the fact that everyone knows a puzzle is a perfect rainy day activity.  Drink local beers (Shipyard Monkeyfist IPA, Andrew's Pale Ale). Eat alarmingly caloric seafood creations and thank God I'm not lactose intolerant.  Lobster and heavy cream go together like... Doritos, fudge, and ice cream cones.  I am the picture of health.


"Eventually everyone shows up at Cappy's"


Tuesday: No longer on vacation, I drag myself out for another 20 mile run before everyone else wakes up and starts having fun without me.  Return home and open laptop.  Everyone starts having fun without me.

So as you can see, I've mostly (Maine-ly, if you will. I will) been running, followed by eating and drinking with reckless abandon.  As usual, I've had to do further reshuffling of the schedule I mapped out for myself, thanks to weather and work obligations, but I'm on track to hit all my workouts for the two week stretch.  Two 20 milers in four days wasn't ideal, but I feel okay right now (must be the calories are speeding up my recovery). 

As good as it feels to have my long runs out of the way, there's something to be said for finishing that last 20 miler, arms raised above your head in triumph, and declare the taper to have begun.  I finished my last 20 miler and still have 5 days of workouts left this week.  Plus that goddamn puzzle.

1000 pieces.  900 of them are brown.

Brew Review: Rhizing Bines

Last night, I came home from work, made a turkey sandwich, watched Sunday's episode of The Newsroom (OMG if you aren't watching this show you're an idiot and also possibly a terrorist), and drank this:

Rhizing Bines is a collaboration between Dogfish Head and Sierra Nevada, though everything on the label is in that Dogfish Head font they make all their labels in, so I didn't know that until after the fact. 

Anyway, I've tried a lot of Dogfish Head beers in the past couple of years, and the experience has been super hit-or-miss for me.  I still stand by their 60 Min IPA as one of the most drinkable IPAs out there, and still stand by their 120 Min IPA as one of the least.  Some of my more unpleasant beer drinking experiences has come out of drinking cloying and/or fruity beers (the 120 Min is like syrup, in my opinion, and I also think their Olde School Barleywine can die a slow death, but that's more barleywine's fault than Dogfish Head's), so when I took a quick glance at this bottle, I was concerned: those look suspiciously like grape vines to me.  Upon further examination, I can see they're conical hops, and using ye olde Google machine, I have determined that a "bine" is:

Thanks, thefreedictionary.com.  

However, I knew none of these things before I drank this beer, and was somewhat concerned about what I was about to consume.

I poured this sucker (well, half of it anyway; it came to me in a 1 pint, 9 oz bottle) into a pint glass and took a whiff.  It was very fruity, almost tropical.  My concern deepened.  I took a sip.

Imagine my pleasant surprise to discover that this is a largely unremarkable IPA!  My first impression was of piney, resin-y hops, which quickly warmed to a smooth finish.  There was almost no fruity taste to speak of.  But for making a big show of having two types of hops, any potential for those big, bitter flavors quickly gave way to a caramel malt.  Isn't this a Double IPA?  Shouldn't I be blown away by dominant, flavorful hops?  Alas, I was not.  This was, as I said, largely unremarkable.  Perfectly fine to drink, but I think it doesn't know what it's trying to be, and as an experimental IPA, misses its mark.  The only aspect of this beer that spoke to its Double IPA nature was the fact that I got pretty drunk.

And speaking of which, very early this morning - just a few short hours after my beer tasting session - I woke up and went to the track for 800s, where I did this:

I'm telling you: I'm onto something with this whole beer-before-running thing.

The Final Push

If you're paying attention, you may have read the title of the post and thought to yourself, "Wait a minute; I thought her race wasn't until September 28th. What's this final push business?"  You are indeed correct - I still have five weeks to go before race day.  

But I also have two weeks of travel that will take me from New York to Connecticut to Maine to Philadelphia (apparently you can't fly directly from Portland to LA, even though I'm sure that's a highly desirable route) to LA and back to New York.  In order to make sure I'm managing to log critical miles and workouts in the midst of that cross country and back nightmare, I had to do some serious rejiggering of the workout schedule.  And while I didn't exactly reinvent the wheel or anything, because of when I'm traveling and when I'd be able to get workouts in, I ended up with two intense weeks ahead of me.  The final push before the taper.

I suspect this is too small to read. Click to enlarge if you care (no pressure)

Some lowlights: 

• 800s tomorrow morning.  800s are the worst.
• 22 miles on Saturday after driving to Maine the Friday evening before Labor Day weekend, which I'm sure will be a short and painless trip and which will definitely not result in my sister and me calling each other ugly/stupid/fat, because we're adults now (my Brother-in-Law is very much looking forward to this trip)
• 800s again next Tuesday morning on the local high school track in Maine.  It's super depressing to be so old that high school boys no longer cat call me.
• 22 miles again next Wednesday, the day after 800s.
• Traveling literally the further possible distance in the contiguous United States: Maine to LA, by way of Philadelphia.
• 3 days of treadmill runs or smog runs in LA on a work trip. Fielder's choice.
• Taking the red eye home. 

So, if at any point in the near future, you're wondering why I haven't responded to your email/Tweeted about the Giants abysmal preseason performances/updated my blog, there's your answer.  Your patience is appreciated.  (Not yours, Eli Manning.  Stop wasting time in the pocket).

Oh, one last thing worth noting: when I realized my upcoming travel was going to be pretty tough on my body and psyche, I decided to ease up this past week (what was I saying about always doing all my runs?...).  So last night, after I mapped this all out while drinking a beer and watching Hard Knocks and getting super fired up about athleticism and crushing things, I went for an easy run.

I'm not saying having a beer beforehand helped my pace.
But I'm not NOT saying that either.