Monday Wrap Ups: In Which A Child Ruined My Thanksgiving

It's been a hot minute since I've updated this space, so I'll quickly get through the wrap ups before tackling the matter at hand.

Number of Miles Run, Week of 11/17: 34.  This was the first week it felt like winter in New York.  I had been considering giving up my gym membership, but of course the first time it got below 30 degrees, I was on the treadmill in my short shorts.  Old habits die hard.  

Number of Beers Consumed, Week of 11/17: Just 3.  Don't worry, I more than made up for that last week...

Types of Beers Consumed, Week of 11/17: NYAC Ale; Bell's Best Brown.

Number of Miles Run, Week of 11/24: 30. I had been planning on a few more, but then I got hungry and forgot.

Number of Beers Consumed, Week of 11/24: 11. Boom. And probably 2 bottles of wine, single-handedly.  'Tis the season.

Types of Beers Consumed, Week of 11/24: Two stadium-sized Bud Lights at the Barclays Center, a Maine Beer Company King Titus Porter, Bell's Best Brown, Stillwater's Brontide Swarzbier (spell check doesn't recognize any of those words), Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA, Sam Adams Light from my Dad's personal supply, Full Sail Pilsner, and Half Full's Bright Ale.

Number of Hot Dogs Consumed, Week of 11/24: 1.  Back in business, baby!

In addition to warming up the Thanksgiving engines with a hot dog, I also enjoyed incredible mashed potatoes, dressing (some people call this "stuffing," but the idea of stuffing anything into a dead, raw animal is revolting, so, dressing it is), biscuits, and other soothing starches.  This morning, my body was like "vegetables!" but my stomach was like "spinach artichoke dip is a vegetable, right?"  

For reasons unknown (read: drunk), Thanksgiving included a dramatic champagne presentation

While my Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot was a race of one, whereby I raced against the dogs trotting around the arena on the televised National Dog Show from the relative comfort of my parents' basement as the snow fell outside, I did participate in an actual Turkey Trot on Saturday.  After Ryan's triumphant first 5k, she rallied the troops for our hometown Rye Recreation Turkey Run with the promise of post-race brunch.  Eager to prolong my food coma, I eagerly agreed.  So on Saturday morning, TG and I boarded the train back up to Westchester for the race.

(True story: when we were getting our train tickets, TG wanted to walk up to the window and ask for "two tickets to paradise."  It's funny because it's true.  #everythingsbetterinryeny #myglorydayswere15yearsago)

That turkey next to me (the one with the beak; not Rich) didn't smell very good.

Let it be known, the 5k is not my specialty.  In fact, I sort of hate it because you have to run hard for a not short amount of time.  But as the gang stood around before the race, everyone started asking me if I was going to win.  Normally, when people ask if I win races, the answer is no, because, duh.  But back on my home turf, and with enough goading from my friends, I figured I might as well give it a shot.

I lined up close-ish to the start, but when the gun went off, I realized I wasn't nearly as far up as I should have been, the big giveaway  being that the turkey was in front of me.  After very nearly stepping on his plush tail and taking him out, I weaved my way past him.

The 5.2 mile and 5k races start together, so it was hard to gauge where I was in the pack and against whom I was racing.  As I charged up the first hill about a quarter mile into the race, there seemed to be quite a few people around me, all seemingly strong.  Perhaps I had gravely misjudged the caliber of the field.

The pack continued together down Forest Avenue and into Rye Town Park, setting for so many illicit beers and cigarettes from my youth.  In fact, as we sprinted along the beach, fingers freezing, I consoled myself by telling myself I had done this very same sprint so many times in my youth, and this time, I wasn't running from the police.

As we left the park, the 5.2 milers turned left, and I was able to see how many 5k-ers were around me.  I could see about 10 in my direct line of vision, and began picking them off.  I took off two men right away, then coasted down Dearborn and made a right on Milton, where I made a move to take out a woman.  She picked up the pace and held me off as I got beside her, but I didn't let up.  Together, we came to another woman, and I made another move to pass, this time dropping both of them.  I could see 3 more people ahead of me, two women and one guy (boy, really).  I knew the rest of the course was straight and flat until the right turn to the hill and the finish.  I glanced at my Garmin and saw a steady 6:24 pace.  Telling myself I was nearly done, I tried to reel in the next woman.  

As we crossed the street to make the right turn, I could tell I was gaining on her, but knew I might run out of room before I could run her down.  We came up the final hill to the finish line, and her parents, who looked to be about my age, started screaming "MOVE IT, NATALIE!"  As it turns out, I think one of my friends might have been her babysitter growing up, so my self-worth took a beating when I realized I was racing a child.  Anyway, Natalie edged me out, and I finished in 20:47, a second and a half behind her.  (She won the 13-17 age group, and I died a little inside).

As it turns out, I was the third woman, seventh overall, and won my own age group, so naturally, I made all my friends stand around in the cold to watch me receive my medal.  They cheered embarrassingly loudly, and then we all started drinking, which is one perk Natalie can't enjoy.  Sucker!  

1st old person to finish!

I'm sure that's a 5k PR for me, though I don't keep track because again, I hate the 5k, and getting out kicked by a minor certainly doesn't make me like it any more (the first female finisher was also a child, but she's an undergrad (ugh) at my alma mater, Colby College, and so I'm less mad and more proud).

I hope you had enjoyable Thanksgivings!

Race Report: Chicago Marathon

On Sunday, I ran my 18th marathon in Chicago in 3:13:58.  I have a weird anxious feeling like maybe I accidentally cheated or something, because a 3:13 marathon seems A LOT faster than I ever could have run.  In fact, it's one hour and nine minutes faster than my first marathon.  I've come a long way, baby.  (Literally.  26.2 x 18 is 471.6 miles, and that doesn't include the distances I traveled training for them).

Pre-Race: TG and I arrived on Saturday morning, having decided to spend Friday night at home in New York, where I could sleep in my own bed, eat my own food, and freak out quietly in my own apartment.  We went straight from O'Hare to the expo, which was approximately 12 hours away by taxi.  I think realistically it was about 20 miles, way far south in Chicago, but it took forever.

Once we finally arrived, however, the whole packet pick up process was easy.  I snagged my bib, my shirt, and a couple of things from the expo I'd neglected to pack: Body Glide, a new SpiBelt, and a pair of Kinvaras, which I actually did pack, but when I find them on sale, I snag them because I hate the new model and need to hoard the old ones.

Sweet backpack. You look 12.

 

After a while, we got pretty hangry, and no amount of free samples of protein granola and Gatorade could hold us over, so we got back in a cab and headed to the Fairmont Millennium Park, our home base for the weekend.

 

(A note about this hotel: It was extraordinarily convenient to the race start at Grant Park.  There was also a complimentary shuttle between the Expo and the Hotel [which we discovered after we paid for a cab].  That said, this hotel was also sort of exorbitantly expensive without being particularly luxurious; our room had two double beds, and maybe smelled like smoke or mildew or something not that awesome.  The convenience factor can't be overstated, but I might look for another hotel in the neighborhood, as there are dozens within a couple block radius, rather than staying here).

 

We dropped off our gear and walked a block away to Sweetwater, where we grabbed a lunch of chicken fingers, tater tots, and other wholesome and nutritious foods and caught up on college football.

 

While many pre-race afternoons are spent napping, watching TV, and generally hanging about on dry land, Saturday afternoon found us on the Chicago River aboard the "Volts Wagon," a 21 foot electric boat my friend Nina had rented for the afternoon.  Though random, our afternoon cruise was actually a great way to unwind before the race while resting our legs. (my friends covered a lot of ground by bike on Sunday)

 

#goGarnets

 

After our sea voyage, Cate, Nina, TG and I headed to Osteria Via Stato for a pasta feast.  Go here and eat the bread.  If you're allergic to garlic, as I am, avoid at all costs the olive oil.

 

 

We ate dinner, we laughed, we made a plan to meet up after the race, and by 7:30pm, TG and I were in a cab headed back to our hotel.

 

I'd like to say this is the part where I calmly laid out my bib person, took a shower, and drifted peacefully off to sleep. 

 

Those are the Kinvaras I bought at the expo. Do as I say, not as I do.

 

This is actually the part where I laid out my bib person, burst into tears because I'm not great at managing anxiety, and blew my nose into TG's shirt.  I know that sounds dramatic, but I'm just being real.  It wasn't even that I was nervous about how I'd race the next day; it was more that, for 16 weeks, I'd been working very deliberately towards something, checking my progress off on my to do list day-by-day in seemingly manageable chunks, and it suddenly occurred to me that the something had arrived.  It was like I realized a big part of my life was coming to an end, even though the cycle can be repeated forever. 

 

Also, I was tired.  Sleepy, yes, but drained, too.  We all choose to do this because we love it and it fulfills us in one way or another, but that doesn't make it easy.  Juggling training and a job and a relationship and friendships and travel and Dorito is a lot (you try balancing all that while a cat is biting you in the Achilles; it is not easy). 

 

Also, the taper makes me super emo and introspective.

 

Eventually, though, I apologized to TG for being a lunatic and calmed down enough to get to sleep, and when I woke up the next morning, I was back to Level 10 excited about the race.

 

Race Morning: I was up before the alarm at 4:50 and started brewing coffee into the world's teeniest coffee cup (another knock against the Fairmont.  "What is this, a coffee cup for ants?").  I suited up, went to the bathroom a few times, played a couple T.Swift/Carly Rae Jepsen/Imagine Dragons/Ludacris jams, and kept glancing out the window at the street below to monitor the crowds headed to the park.  By 6:30am, I was ready to head outside.

 

Human Bib Person!

I tossed on some throw away clothes and TG and I headed downstairs (two small boys in the elevator in their footie pajamas said to their dad "Why is she wearing a garbage bag?"  Poor guy didn't know what to tell them).  By now, Michigan Avenue was flooded with runners and their loved ones, and progress was slow.  It was 6:50 when I kissed TG goodbye and entered the Park at Jackson Street, slogged through the security line, dashed over to gear check, and headed towards Wave 1, Corral B.  Promptly at 7:20, Wave 1 corrals closed, the National Anthem played, and everywhere around me, Garmins found their satellites.  At 7:30, the elites were off.  At 7:32, so was I.

 

The Race: My pace bracelet had me running even 7:35s for the duration of the race.  My plan was to go out at pace and run for five miles before I put any thought into making adjustments, etc.  This was more difficult than I anticipated because, from the get go, my Garmin was WAY off.  The race starts in the Loop, where the buildings that make up the Chicago skyline have their foundations.  Coupled with the short stretch through a tunnel at the half-mile mark, there was a lot of satellite interference. 9 minute miles, no 5 minute miles, no 6 minute miles.  Before the mile 1 marker was even in view, my Garmin clicked off a mile.  I tried to relax and find a comfortably hard effort as opposed to focusing on my watch.  At mile 3, I felt the pinching in my hip start up. "Goddamnit, this is going to be a long race," I thought.  But after a dozen strides during which I focused on my form (abs tight, hips squared), the pinching resolved itself. 

 

5k split: 23:13

 

My about mile 3 and a half, my Garmin seemed to be giving accurate paces, even if it was off on distance.  I glanced at the race clock at mile 4, and the pace bracelet on my wrist.  I was right on target.  "Maybe this is my day after all," I thought.  But 22 miles is a long way to go, so mostly what I did was put my head down and focus on running.  And I do mean "put my head down."  I spent the vast majority of this race looking at the ground 5-8 feet in front of me, cognizant of feet and potholes and steel grates and anything else that might cause me to step funny and tweak my hip.  Good thing I've been to Chicago many times before, because I saw almost none of it on Sunday.  I was so focused on looking down and staying upright that it took TG shouting in the loudest and scariest voice I've ever heard come out of his mouth at mile 5 to bring my attention back to the present.  I veered over to the left side of the road to say hi and give him a big smile and hoped he'd interpret that as the all clear. 

 

10k split: 45:53

 

I made my way up towards Wrigley, then through Boystown, and finally into Lincoln Park, where I knew I'd see my friends.  I glanced at my Garmin again.  The time of day was displayed.  Figuring I'd bumped it somehow, I pressed the button to get back to the timing screen.  It started searching for satellites.  I started panicking.  Without the first 8 miles worth of time, how would I know how I was doing against my pace bracelet?

 

Thankfully, I realized within the mile that the pace per mile feature still worked, so I could start my watch again, ignore the cumulative time, and still get an accurate reading on how I was doing as compared to those 7:35s. 

 

As I headed down Clark towards my friends, I saw that the total time clock on display at mile 9 read 1:08 - exactly the cumulative time I was targeting to have by mile 9 on my pace bracelet.  As someone who cannot do math (ask my CFO), this was a godsend to me.

 

And speaking of godsends, Cate, Nina, and TG were underneath the mile 9 clock screaming for me.  I relayed to them the Garmin woes but gave them a thumbs up.  I knew I probably wouldn't see them again before the finish, which was a bit of the bummer, but was happy to have spotted them all the same.

 

Cate also reached out to offer me a bagel with salmon cream cheese, which I declined, but thanks for offering, friend... But it was a good reminder to start taking some fuel of my own, so I reached into my SpiBelt and took out my Ziploc of Swedish Fish.  I fished out 4 and ate them one at a time, and stuffed the rest of the plastic bag into my sports bra.

 

At this point, my Garmin had been ticking of 7:25s with some consistency. (Also at this point, I had no more splits to go by, since my Garmin was effed, so you're not getting any more splits until the end, either.  Is that annoying and stressful?  TELL ME ABOUT IT). I knew I was a hair fast, but truthfully, putting time in the bank during the marathon has worked pretty well in the past for me (STOP YELLING AT ME), so my plan became to hold steady at my pace until the halfway mark and then reevaluate.

 

By 13.1, the race clock said 1:39 and my pace bracelet said 1:39:30, so I knew I was continually putting distance between my finish time and my goal.  That said, I was also working for it.  Not at an unsustainable level, but enough that I decided to hold steady yet again, instead of trying to pick up the race and aim for negative splits.  I decided to reevaluate again at mile 17, when I'd have fewer than 10 miles to go.  I ate a couple more fish.

 

I always think that the real heavy lift of the marathon, the meat of the work you're putting in, comes in miles 16-20.  Those are the unglamorous, slog-fest miles.  As I passed the mile 16 marker, I thought to myself "this is where you'll run a PR, or not."  Head down.

 

When I got to mile 17, I glanced down at my wrist again to see where my pace bracelet said I should be versus what the race clock said.  My Garmin was once again showing the time of day.  "Don't freak out," I told myself.  "Reset at the next mile marker and rely on the splits."  The 7:25s kept coming.  It was like I had found the exact sweet spot - a pace that I was just on the upper limit of what I could sustain.  A few times, I thought "I'm going to ease up on the effort, just five seconds a mile or so, until mile 20."  But by the end of each mile, I found myself back under my target pace.

 

At mile 20, I let myself imagine what it would be like to break 3:19.  I knew the race clock started a minute or two before I did - maybe I'd break 3:18, even.  I tried not to get greedy.  6 miles is still a long way, 48 minutes if I have to slow down now, maybe more.  I did some mental math.  Just thinking about it made it hard for me to breathe.  "Don't start crying, dummy; you haven't done anything yet, and also you need to breathe in order to finish."

At mile 22, some dudes were offering ice cold beer.  I grabbed a Dixie cup and gulped it down.  Ice cold it was (its provenance was questionable, however... is Schlitz still on the market?).  "Oh shit," I thought.  Am I showboating?"  I felt guilty and put my head back down, concentrating on ticking off the miles, which seemed to be coming faster than I expected.

 

At mile 23, I heard my name over a loudspeaker and was momentarily confused.  Can I hear the finish line this far away?  And how do they know I'm coming?  I realized it was Josh, out cheering on his team with a megaphone and taking photos.  I couldn't hide my excitement about my impending finish.

 

At mile 24, my left hamstring started tightening up, causing a hitch in my step.  It's a sensation I've felt before, most often when I'm doing tempo work on the treadmill.  It goes away immediately when I slow down, but until then, feels like my knee might give out with any step.  I put all my attention into my stride, making sure I was taking long, strong steps.  "Don't do anything stupid."

 

Mile 25.  1 mile to go.  800 meters to go.  Turn a corner, up a hill.  400 meters to go.  Mile 26.  I could see the finish clock. 

 

3:16:15.  

 

Beaming, I crossed the line.

 

I did it.  After so many seasons, I finally got my sub 3:20.  I had no idea what my finish time was, but I knew it was a substantial PR.

 

Having gotten choked up just thinking about a PR at mile 20, I was surprised I didn't burst into tears when I crossed the finish line.  Instead, I was practically vibrating, I was so excited.  I let out a huge whoop as I made my way through the finish chute. "You still have a lot left in the tank, eh?" said the finisher next to me.

 

I grabbed my medal, my food, MY BEER, and made my way through the finish line area to grab my bag from gear check.  (One of the wonderful perks of finishing much faster than your seeded time is that there is no line at all to get your bag).  I shuffled through the post race party, eager to find my friends.  Our plan was to meet back at the hotel, which seemed an interminable distance away.  I just wanted to find them, to thank them, to celebrate with them.  Also maybe for them to tell me where the hotel was, exactly, because it turns out I am not great with directions. 

 

As I made my way back through Millennium Park, I looked up and saw a blonde, a brunette, and a tall guy in a blue jacket, each with a bike.  MY FRIENDS!  (My incredible friends who gave up their weekends [and almost their bagel sandwiches] to watch me run by for 15 seconds.  My friends, to whom I owe so much.  Thank you, my friends.)

 

"3:13:58, that's incredible!" they said.  "Who ran a 3:13:58?  Me?" I was stunned.  "You guys, I'm like a legit fast person now!"

 

(As if on command, a random stranger in the park approached and asked to take my picture.  This is the second consecutive marathon after which this has happened.  Has anyone else experienced this?  It makes me feel equal parts like a celebrity and like someone who is going to be the subject of digitally edited revenge porn or something - what else do you do with pictures of strangers?)

 



Not strangers. Also my mom is on the phone in my hand. Hi mom!



The rest of the splits, which I found out from the surprisingly efficient runner tracking app:

 

15k: 1:09:03

20k: 1:32:23

Half: 1:37:11

25k: 1:54:57

30k: 2:17:53

35k: 2:41:06

40k: 3:05:10

Finish: 3:13:58

 

Average pace: 7:24.  Negative splits and everything.  Thanks Chicago!

 

As far as the Chicago Marathon goes, it will be my favorite, probably forever.  It's fast and flat and it's just a great city to go to and I love everything about it (except the Fairmont, as discussed).  Run this race.

 

As far as marathons in general go, they are also my favorite, definitely forever.  Yes, they are hard and scary, and take a lot of physical and mental strength, and even if you have that maybe sometimes they make you have weird crying fits, but there is not a single thing in this world more satisfying and fulfilling to me than setting a goal, even a big, scary one, chipping away at it, maybe falling short a couple times, and ultimately achieving it. 

 

I wish everyone could feel this feeling.  I am so, so lucky.

 

Here's to the next great adventure!

 

 

 



Wednesday Wrap Up: VERT Race Series Trail Master Killah

Things are picking up steam with respect to training: I’m on target for 56 miles this week and a record high 60 miles next week.  I’m also on pace for setting a record on the calorie consumption front, if Monday night’s picnic in Central Park is any indication.  “Two-bite brownies” are so named because you’re meant to consume two in each bite, right?  Right?!

Last week was a step back week, which I gladly accepted.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 42, including an 8 mile GMP workout, a hilly as f*ck trail 5k (more below), and a “long” run of 13 miles, which I completed before 8:45am Sunday, which literally never happens because I need at least 90 minutes to drink coffee, go to the bathroom, and generally procrastinate and psyche myself up for running.  While I was so proud of myself and my time management skills on Sunday morning, it all came back to bite me in the ass Sunday night, when I was so tired the prospect of picking what to have for dinner brought me to tears.  Cool.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 6.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Beer blogger fail – I drank an IPA and what was pitched as an “IPL” from SingleCut and Gun Hill, but I don’t know which was which.  I also enjoyed a Sixpoint Sweet Action, and a Fire Island Lighthouse Ale, rounding out my New York beer sampling (#drinklocal).  Allegedly I had two Sierra Nevadas somewhere along the line, but I don’t really know when or where that was.

Now, as for that hilly as f*ck trail 5k…

On Saturday, I made good on my promise to check out Van Cortlandt Park for the inaugural VERT Race Series Trail Master Killah.  This voyage was not made easy.

On Friday, I received a travel advisory email from the VERT people, informing me that the 1 train would not be running north of 96^th Street.  

In full disclosure, if my race entry had not been comped, and had I not demanded TG shell out a race fee himself in the name of supporting me and “OMG it will be so funnnnnn!” I probably would have been deterred.  I hear the expression “free shuttle service” and I’m like “more like free time to NOT do whatever it was I was planning to do that is now inaccessible by subway.”  In the MTA’s defense, the free shuttle service is the same thing as the subway, but above ground on buses.  They make it as easy as humanly possible to not change your plans.  And yet…

But, I had indeed committed to this event, and the VERT people generously comped my registration, so I collected TG and we took the D to the A to the E to the free shuttle service to Van Cortlandt Park.  And thank goodness we did, because it turned out to be totally awesome (not necessary the free shuttle service part, though that wasn’t objectively bad either…)

Pre-Race:  The free shuttle service let us off directly outside Van Cortlandt Park.  Directions indicated that the registration would be at the Tortoise and the Hare statue in the Park, but having never been there, I had no idea where this was.  Fortunately, TG did, and also, there were people milling about with bibs on, which is generally a good sign when you're looking for a race start.  We followed the crowds and walked along a gravel track, skirting a huge field filled with cricket players, until we reached registration.  We picked up bibs and t-shirts (quick note: the shirts are AWESOME.  I'm not someone who goes all crazy about unisex versus gendered sizing, mostly because at approximately 40 feet tall, men's t-shirts fit me better anyway, but the unisex small fits really well and is super soft cotton.  The design it pretty rad too, and I'm psyched I have non-tech shirt to add to my arsenal) and dropped bags with no wait whatsoever.  I switched into trail shoes and felt a little embarrassed about doing so, but truthfully, I have so few opportunities to wear them that I wanted to take 'em out for a spin.  We hung about talking and stretching and running a few warm up laps on the aforementioned track (okay, technically I ran a few warm up steps, but other people were running laps, and in the interest of writing a thorough race report, I'm sharing that to paint a more full picture of the scene.  It's a literary technique.  I took one creative writing class in 2004.  I know what I'm doing here.).  

While we were hanging out, TG asked someone to take our picture, because he's ALWAYS taking pictures and putting them on social media and it's so annoying (just kidding; it's me who does that).  Lo and behold, the girl he asked was Pamela, and she and her husband Monojeet recognized me from this here blog!  TG was not especially impressed that I am FAMOUS on the INTERNET, but I was too busy being impressed with myself to notice.  

A couple minutes before the 11am start time, the announcer encouraged us to head to the starting area and self-seed.  TG and I hung in the back third of the pack, not entirely sure what we were up against with respect to the allegedly hilly course.  Right on time, we took off.

The race: The first half-mile or so took us around the cricket fields on the gravel track.  Not quite singletrack but not nearly a full six lanes, the track was about wide enough to handle the estimated 300-ish runners, baring a few instances I had to step to the outside grass to pass.  TG and I started out together, and I thought to myself "these people are crazy if they think this is hilly."  

Soon enough, though, we made a right off the track and into the woods, where TG and I separated.  The shade from the thick trees overhead was a welcome change at 11am in August.  The hills were not.

This course was tough!  The hill at about 1.25 miles was super steep, and from then on, it was basically uphill for a mile.  The descents were no picnic either.  The path through the woods was the same loose, small gravel that made up the track, and as I was barreling down the hills, I thought to myself "holy hell I am so glad I thought to put on these trail shoes." 

That's me in the orange, hurdling over a water bar trying not to eat it. Photo

That said, I thought the course was also super fun!  Normally I sort of dread 5ks, and speed work in general, but this was one of the first times I felt like "I can push the pace here, it's only 3.1 miles," and scrambling up and down the hills on loose footing did make me feel pretty bad ass.  Well, at least until I looked at my Garmin and saw I was only 1.5 miles in...

Miraculously, I took no tumbles and avoided the puke threshold, and found myself with less than a mile to go exiting the woods and heading back to the gravel path.  I'd been in hot pursuit of the guy in front of me for close to two miles, so when we hit the track, I tried to make a move.  This was foolish, since I'd used up any gas I might have had for making moves hauling myself up hill for the last 2.5 miles.  He held me off, and crossed a few seconds ahead of me.  I extended my congratulations and tried not to vomit on his shoes.

Photo

I grabbed a bottle of water at the finish and stood in the infield cheering on the runners and chatting with some other finishers, including a girl from Van Cordlandt Track Club, who told me I "zoomed" by her early on.  I told her she actually had the advantage, and had I known what was in store in Van Cortlandt, most certainly would have been a little more conservative.

Finish time: 24:38

Overall Place: 30

Gender Place: 5

AG Place: 3

Post race: Now on to the good stuff!

One of the selling points for this race for me, besides the opportunity to use those trail shoes, was the post-race party.  It did not disappoint.

The party was a short walk away at the Van Cortlandt Golf Course, which was a pretty venue overlooking a small pond. 

Photo

When we walked in, a fellow looked us up and down, decided what he'd call us, wrote those names on plastic cups, and handed them to us.  It was all very frat party, which naturally, I loved (my named was Shorty, because of course).

We took those cups directly to the kegs, which were provided by SingleCut and Gun Hill Brewing.  The beer was plentiful, the lines moved quickly, and best of all, the intoxicants were free.  We enjoyed a couple beers standing in the sunshine (me in my new t-shirt!) talking to Pamela and Monojeet, who were super fun and nice and also like beer and marathons, which is a deciding factor when I'm evaluating potential friendships.  You're in, guys.

While we imbibed, the DJ starting playing, and a few people hit the dance floor before the awards ceremony kicked off.  Much as I would have liked to stay long enough to consume enough beers to make me consider hitting the dance floor myself, I had a 4pm appointment in Chelsea, so TG and I took off for our voyage home.  The pics look awesome, though, so I'll make a note that for their next race, I should probably block off the whole day.

In conclusion: VERT Race Series' Trail Master Killah was a challenging but really fun course.  The number of runners was just about perfect considering the width of the trails in Van Cortlandt, and despite the subway snag, getting up there is so easy I might even return under my own volition.  The t-shirt is solid, and the post-race party was among the best, and certainly the most boozy, I've attended.  Sounds like you missed out on a solid time, eh?

As a reminder, VERT Race Series comped my entry for this race.  These opinions are my own.

Tuesday Wrap Up: Fairfield Half Marathon

On Sunday, for the 7th time, I ran the Fairfield Half Marathon. It would have been the 8th time, were it not for the whole pesky broken foot thing last year. But even at 7 starts and finishes, this is the race I've run more than any other. And with good reason. I love the Fairfield Half Marathon.

Many people do NOT love the Fairfield Half Marathon. For that reason, I suspect, the course changed significantly last year. I didn't know this however, because I had a broken foot, and while I was registered for the race last year, I quickly deleted all correspondence about any course changes I received from the race director and went back to feeling sorry for myself and drinking too much.

So this year's Fairfield Half Marathon featured a new to me course, and as a result, I loved it even more than usual. Gone were the long climbs beside highway overpasses, replaced by flat stretches along the shore in Westport (I presume the race name now refers to the county and not the city). A few signature aspects remained: the big hill at mile 2, the incredible crowd support throughout, the finish line in a gravel pit (that's not the best...), the post-race beach party.  In my view, the changes that were made were all for the better, and the logistics of this race (parking, getting to the start, etc) continue to be awesome.  Special thanks to the Fairfield Police Department, and in particular the cop directing traffic between miles 4 and 5, who had to deal with a violently aggressive suburban dad who was threatening to run us all over.  That's a true story, and I'm glad the police officer kept us all safe.  I hope the dad was arrested.  Um, but don't let that deter you from running this next year...

Old Course

New Course

I won't go into all the details of a race I've run a billion times, but I finished in 1:43, a comfortable effort, and with negative splits, which leaves me feeling good about Chicago Training, which begins this week.  Best of all, my hip didn't bother me once for the duration of the race.  My stomach sure did though; I suspect consuming multiple bottles of wine single-handedly on Friday night didn't exactly leave me poised for feeling great, even two days later...

Oh hi, I swear I wasn't race walking even though it looks like it.

Number of Miles Run Last Week: 20.  In deference to my sore hip, I did just 2 short, easy runs in the week leading up to the half.  This seems to have been an effective strategy.  Or laziness and dumb luck.

Number of Beers Consumed Last Week: 8. And the gallon of rose I drank on Friday night.  Oh God, hangovers in your thirties are atrocious.

Types of Beers Consumed Last Week: Sierra Nevada Summer, Magic Hat Elder Betty, Blue Moon Honey Wheat, and Bud Light.

Hot Dog Count: 0.  Damnit, Walsh.  It's officially summer now.  Step up your hot dog game.

So, here we are in week one of Chicago training.  I mentioned that fact to TG on Sunday night, and he said "see you in November!" which made me sad.  I'm tentatively following the same training plan I used in the spring, but I'm reserving the right to swap it out for something a little less intense; the heaviest weeks in the spring left me unbelievably drained, and overall, I felt like the volume was just a bit more than I could comfortably manage with work and travel and sleep and wanting to see my boyfriend for more than the 10 minutes before I collapsed, exhausted, in bed every night.  Fingers crossed, the months ahead should be a lot lighter on work travel, but I'm trying to remind myself that it's okay if my training plan is more fluid than hard and fast.  That's what she said?

Race Report: The Boston Marathon, Round 3

In 2011, I ran my first Boston Marathon and swore off the race forever.

In 2012, I ran my second Boston Marathon. I had an even more unpleasant experience, and vowed I wouldn't be back.

But like so many from the running community, it was important to me to return to Boston this year. So on Monday, I crossed the finish line on Boylston Street for the third time in my life, 3 hours and 26 minutes after I started (for those of you who don't want to read this whole damn race report; I'm not mad, I definitely skim for results), and while I'm no less convinced that Boston is a difficult and unforgiving course, I think the third time might actually have been the charm for me.



Pre-race: After a fortuitous shake out run in Connecticut on Easter Sunday morning, TG and I piled into the car with more Easter candy than two people should have at any time, least of all when one of them is about to run a marathon, and made the three hour drive to Boston. Our first stop was the expo, which was back at the Hynes Convention Center on Boylston Street this year. I picked up my bib, strongly encouraged TG to make me a sign, and took a quick loop through the expo before walking along Boylston Street to the finish line. The sun was shining, and rather than being somber and contemplative ahead of the race, I was in a great mood. We grabbed a quick lunch at Copley Plaza and headed to Cambridge, where we were spending the night.




For my first two Bostons, I stayed out in Milford, right by the start at Hopkinton, which allows for a few extra hours of sleep, but is a logistical hassle post-race. This year, I booked a room at the Irving House, a B&B near Inman Square in Cambridge, which was about 15 minutes across the Charles River from Boston Common. When we checked in, I noted a sign welcoming runners and indicating that breakfast on Monday would begin at 5:00am, enabling those of us headed to the buses to get coffee and bagels before our run. The B&B was small but well-appointed, and my only concern was the small sign in the bathroom indicating that they had low flow toilets, and users should consider flushing at intervals to prevent clogging and overflow. That's not what you want from a toilet on marathon morning...

TG and I checked in and had a few hours of downtime, during which I laid out my bib person and set about writing my race day goals. About 6:00pm, we headed back into Boston for a relaxed, homemade pasta dinner with two of my best friends from college and their significant others. My abs got quite a workout from laughing so hard catching up with Cathy and Caroline, which was exactly what I needed to stay relaxed ahead of the big day. I hit the hay around 10:00pm and slept like a baby (a baby who sleeps well, I mean. Caroline would like me to point out that she knows a certain baby who doesn't sleep, but he's cute enough that it's hard to be mad).




Race morning: When the alarm went off at 5:15am, I was pretty groggy, but that resolved itself as soon as TG fetched me the strongest cup of coffee I've ever had from the breakfast room at the Irving House (luckily the potency did not have any negative implications on the low-flow toilet...). I got dressed, listened to some tunes to get psyched, and scarfed down a bagel while TG worked on his spectating game plan. Ultimately, he decided he wanted to be at Boston College, just after Heartbreak Hill, so I planned to look for him on the right side of the road around mile 21. Cathy indicated she and her parents would be in Wellesley at mile 13, and I knew I had a family friend, Andy, at mile 9 in Natick. Even if I had a horrible day, I'd have some familiar faces to look forward to.

At 6:45am, TG and I got into the car and headed to Boston Common, where he dropped me off as close as he could get with the car. I hopped out and made my 10 minute walk to the buses. I walked right onto a bus without waiting at all, snagged the last seat, and almost immediately, we headed to Hopkinton.

I sat next to a friendly man from Toronto running his first Boston. He quizzed me a bit on the day, and I pressed him for details on his training and favorite races. He asked if I'd seen the 60 Minutes piece featuring Shalane, and I confessed that I always hold out hope for Meb, despite his age. Our conversation made the hour long trip pass quickly, and by 8:30am I was walking under the arches welcoming me to the Athlete Village.

As a result of heightened security this year, there was no gear check in Hopkinton, so anything we brought with us was either left behind, or making the 26.2 mile journey on our bodies. I wore a throw away hoodie and sweatpants and carried a large trash bag to sit on, as well as a couple magazines and a printed out copy of my Uncle John's email of course wisdom. I found myself a sunny spot on the grass to lay out my trash bag, ate a granola bar, and leafed through Vanity Fair.

Throughout the morning, all kinds of announcements are called out over the loudspeaker at the Athlete Village. Running groups lose one another and try to reunite, medical advice is offered, and hydration reminders are conveyed. Most of this is white noise, and runners spend their time in the Athlete Village talking over the announcements, which makes the whole village sound kind of like a 35,000-strong beehive. At 8:45am, however, the voice over the loudspeaker called everyone to attention and then read the names of the 4 killed in last year's bombings, along with the names of Boston-area police and firemen recently killed in action, and asked for a moment of silence. It was the first time in my life I've ever been part of a moment of silence in which every single person was absolutely silent. It was incredible.

By 9:15am, I was done with Vanity Fair and figured I should get on the ever-growing porta potty line before I was called to my corral at 9:50am. Slowly but surely, I inched my way forward, reading and rereading my Uncle John's advice. "Early speed kills," he wrote. "Don't do anything stupid." After 40 minutes, I was next. The girl ahead of me exited the porta potty and held the door open for me.

"There's no toilet paper."

"Oh."

TP is one of those things on every single list of supplies for a first time marathoner, and one of those things I never bother to bring. What I did bring, however, was the printed copy of my Uncle John's email. If anyone would forgive me for using his words to wipe my butt before a race, it was a seasoned marathoner like my Uncle John. That email proved to be more of a race day asset than he ever could have anticipated.

A few minutes after 10:00am, I joined hordes of other Wave 2 runners and made my way down the hill from the Athletes Village to the start. I passed lots of friendly spectators, cheering and waving signs despite the fact that we were more than a half mile from the race course and were all walking. Residents along the route were handing out safety pins, water, bananas, and some particularly animated gentlemen were offering donuts, beer, and cigarettes to any runners who were interested. I was tempted, but ultimately decided to hold out another 4-ish hours.

On the walk, I tied my black trash bag around my neck like a cape, and noticed it had gotten hot to the touch by the time I got to the corrals. I ditched it and hiked up my arm sleeves, but even those seemed unnecessary. While it was no 2012 race, the weather was already a touch warmer than I would have liked. But on measure, it was a beautiful day, and I'd managed to get this far without working myself into a frenzy, so I decided to put the heat and sun out of my mind and have a nice day on the course. I crossed the mat and hit start on the Garmin, and with that, my third Boston Marathon was underway.

The Race: I was wearing a 3:20 pace bracelet I'd made myself, which necessitated a lot of math on my part, and the effort it required to create it alone made me inclined to use it, but I also thought hard about Uncle John's advice for the first four miles. The course drops a tremendous amount - more than 200 feet - in those opening four miles, and I had to fight not to go out too fast. My pace bracelet had me running 7:45s for those miles, and I was even more cautious than that.
Mile 1 : 8:06
Mile 2: 7:53
Mile 3: 7:51
Mile 4: 7:50




From here, and for the next 12 miles, my pace bracelet had me running Goal Marathon Pace, or 7:30s. I was feeling good, but was only 4 miles in, so I decided to remain cautious for another 2 miles. Mile 6 was where I thought I remember first realizing the wheels were coming off in the Hamptons Marathon last fall, so it was really important to me to get to mile 6 feeling good.
Mile 5: 7:56
Mile 6: 7:50

I did indeed feel good 6 miles in, so I decided to try to drop the pace a little bit, while being really careful not to force it. I cannot overstate how much I was listening to my body for the first half of this marathon, continually telling myself "you feel good; stay right here." While this meant the 3:20 on my pace bracelet was out the window almost immediately, I also knew that I had 4 additional minutes between that and a PR.
Mile 7: 7:42
Mile 8: 7:44
Mile 9: 7:42
Mile 10: 7:46

By mile 9, I was hot enough to roll down my arm sleeves, and knew that I'd never get a break from the sun, which was a little discouraging. In addition, while I was physically comfortable with my pace, I did feel a little guilty that it wasn't what was written on my pace bracelet. I thought about ripping it off, since I was going by feel anyway, but it was nice to be able to check my total time at each mile again the bracelet and gauge a finish time frame. I also knew I was approaching my first friend on the course, Andy, between miles 9 and 10. Seeing him gave me such a boost, especially because it reminded me that the last time I'd seen him during the Boston Marathon, it was a sweltering day and I still finished. I recommitted myself mentally to running a smart, strong race. With 6 miles until Newton, I thought to myself "don't do anything stupid."

The screaming girls of Wellseley were, as always, a highlight of the next stretch, and spying Cathy and her parents also gave me some energy. Miles 14 through 16 felt really warm, and I was starting to get thirsty in between aid stations.
Mile 11: 7:55
Mile 12: 7:48
Mile 13: 7:52
Mile 14: 7:54
Mile 15: 7:53

Just before I entered Newton, a runner nearby asked the spectators who won.

"An American!" They told him.

"Which one?!"

"Meb!"

The runners around me all looked at each other, equal parts astounded and thrilled. We checked with another fan a little further ahead to be sure. "Who won?"

"Meb!"

It sounds cheesy, but this news honestly gave me so much energy. The brutal downhill to the Newton fire station was punishing on my quads - more so than I had remembered - but if a guy about to be 39 years old could win, surely I could run hard up 4 hills. I tried to take them one at a time, not looking at my Garmin and instead thinking about running up Harlem hill, which I've done one billion times. I was so focused on staying strong, it took me a minute to process what was happening when I heard someone say "Hi Claire." It was Josh, cheering on his teammates at a spot where they no doubt needed his support. He snagged a shot of me, in which my trance is evident:




I remember distinctly my first Boston, being on the first hill after the fire station, and wondering "Is this Heartbreak Hill?" and then being so very sad to discover it wasn't even close. It seems I'm not the only person to make this mistake. Shortly after the turn at the fire station, I heard a man running near me answer a phone call on his headphones (I mean...) and tell the caller "I'm just running up Heartbreak Hill!" No sir, you're just 4 miles away from running up Heartbreak Hill...

Though I told myself I wouldn't look at my Garmin, I did glance at it after the first hill, at mile 16. It said 7:52. I thought for sure something was wrong with it. My first two attempts at the Newton hills had been a death march, and this one didn't feel easy by any means - no way I was keeping pace. I kept my head down and kept plugging away, relaxing on the downhills and counting down on the uphills.
Mile 16: 7:52
Mile 17: 7:54
Mile 18: 7:49
Mile 19: 7:33
Mile 20: 7:46

This seemed impossible. But with Heartbreak Hill ahead, I told myself to get through one last hill, and then it was just 5 easy miles home. I have a vague recollection of the crowds getting louder on Heartbreak, knowing how badly the runners needed them, but felt like I was having an out of body experience. This is possibly because I was extremely dehydrated at this point, but I chose to go with it until the top of the hill.
Mile 21: 8:09

Holy shit, I ran the Newton Hills well. Holy shit. I was handsomely rewarded for my efforts with TG's smiling face, exactly where he said he'd be. There was enough room on the sidewalk for him to run along the course and talk to me. I told him to stop running so fast. He asked how I was doing, I explained that it was really hot and I was getting tired, but I felt pretty good, and that I thought I'd finish in around 3:30. I knew by this point that the make-or-break miles were behind me, and a 3:30 would allow for really easy miles (easy being relative, 21 miles into a marathon). Then I had to stop talking because I had also stopped breathing. I focused my attention on Commonwealth Avenue ahead.

The last 5 miles of the Boston Marathon are indeed almost entirely downhill. Some quick calculations told me if I really hauled ass, dropping my pace below 7:30s for the rest of course, I could snag a PR, but a quick check in of my bodily systems told me that wasn't in the cards. I was extremely thirsty, and reaching up to touch my forehead, confirmed I was salty and dry. My quads were also so trashed, I was a little concerned about falling on the downhills. I thought back to my goals, among them another BQ and a course PR. "Don't do anything stupid." I told myself.

I kept my head down for most of the last 5 miles, so when I happened to glance up, I was so pleasantly surprised to see the Citgo sign beckoning me home. We went under the overpass on Commonwealth and I started thinking about picking up the pace for the homestretch. "Don't do anything stupid."
Mile 22: 7:45
Mile 23: 7:53
Mile 24: 8:00
Mile 25: 7:59
Mile 26: 7:58
Mile 26.2: 2:35

The right on Hereford snuck up on me quicker than I expected, which has never happened in the history of the marathon, and I didn't dare attempt a surge until I saw the street sign. I checked my Garmin as I turned onto Boylston and knew my second fastest marathon time was within reach if I hauled ass. So haul ass I did. I crossed the line in 3:26:55, exactly twice the time it took me to run the first 13.1 miles. For the first time in 3 tries, I executed a successful Boston Marathon strategy. I have never been so happy about achieving my B goal in my life.



In conclusion: I ran this race more conservatively than I had planned, but in the end, I think it absolutely paid off. While 65 degrees doesn't seem sweltering, I assure you that after 26.2 miles in unrelenting sun, it sure feels that way. Newton can eat you up even when conditions are good, and I've heard from many, many people who ran Monday that the second half of the race broke them. It was not easy for me by any means, but I feel so incredibly proud of myself that I got to Newton with enough gas in the tank to tackle the hills.

More over, I feel like I'm "back." I wondered, after the Hamptons, if maybe I'd lost the touch, and I'd never have a successful race again, and I can't tell you how good it feels to have proved myself wrong. I'm definitely not an imposter - I am a Boston qualifier again.





And now, I'm a beer drinker again too.

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.