T Minus One
I went for my last run this morning. Three miles that felt awful. My legs were stiff and heavy, like the muscles had been replaced by cement. Hardened cement.
Tomorrow’s the marathon.
The Wrong Shoes
I spent $225 on shoes in the past week. On Friday, I went to the Super Runner’s Shop on the Upper West Side to get a replacement pair of Asics — I was in search of the exact same shoe I bought in August, which has done me well these past three months. It is off-white, with pink detailing. They did not have any shoes with pink detailing, and of course I couldn’t remember the model number. The man was very nice, and wound up selling me a different style Asics.
That night I ran in the new shoes. They felt alright, if a little stiff.
On Sunday I ran eight miles — to the park, one loop, then back. It did feel a bit strange to do such an abbreviated run. Strange, and annoying, because the middle of the ball of my right foot went numb halfway through.
On Monday I ran four miles. My foot started feeling numb again. And the left shoe rubbed some of the skin off my ankle.
So today I went to The Running Company in Time Warner. They had the shoes with pink piping. Except when the guy went to get them, he came back with shoes with blue piping. The latest model, he said. Released just in time for the marathon.
I bought them anyway.
Taper
Fifteen yesterday. I left at 4, and when I was coming home, a little after 6, I was actually chilly. Fall is really here. Or, as a girl said in the elevator the other day, “Fall is finally here.” I didn’t realize we had all been holding our breath. I feel a bit sad about the change of season, that usual sense of loss and dread — another summer gone, and all too soon I will be wearing my parka and grimacing against the wind. The upside is, the cold is good for running.
My legs are tired. They are strong, and they are tired — they can go fast, but they feel it. It’s a different kind of tired than I feel when it’s humid, or when I haven’t been running enough. It’s not so much weakness as ache. Last night, I ran over to the park, did three laps, and ran home, and by the end, my knees really hurt. My ankles hurt. My big toes hurt. Nonetheless, it was a fantastic run. If you have muscles in your knees, ankles, and big toes, I think they’re negligible, and can be overridden by the big, workhorse muscles in your thighs. It’s like my thighs are the Clydesdales, pulling the firetruck, and my knees, ankles, and feet are the Dalmatians. They’ll keep up whatever pace the horses set, but they might whimper about it. Right now my Clydesdales are in good shape, but my Dalmatians are barking.
Today I went to visit a friend an hour Northeast of the city. The leaves were at their peak color this weekend, she said, and the trees were truly gorgeous. It was a clear blue sky day, chilly but warm in the sun, and the colors were almost blinding. We took the Henry Hudson Parkway back into the city, and there were lots of bikers and runners on the path where it runs alongside the highway, south of Fairway. I’ve done that run, following the westside highway to the George Washington Bridge, as part of my training for past marathons, and beautiful as it is, it just sucks. My last long training run was last weekend, and my last short-long training run was yesterday. So iIt was a relief to know I won’t be doing the westside highway run, at least not this year. But I also felt guilty — even though I did my miles yesterday, I felt like I should be out there.
From now until the marathon, I’m supposed to taper off the mileage — only run five days this week, eight miles next weekend, then five days the following week. Then 26.2. This makes me extremely nervous. Why didn’t I do more speed work? Why didn’t I run hill repeats, even just once? Is it too late? I don’t like the idea that it is too late. Summer is over. Winter’s on its way.
Standing Still
Too many miles yesterday. It was supposed to be 22, but honestly, I have no idea. It was interminable, and yet, I was running so slow, I wouldn’t be surprised if I only did 17. Incredibly depressed, but not surprised.
I had planned to do the long run on Saturday, but then Friday night I got tickets to go see The National and so was in no shape to run Saturday morning. Not because of the drinking or dancing or partying with the band. Because of the standing.
The show started a little after eight, but the band didn’t come on until 10:30, and then played until almost midnight, so by the end we’d been on our feet for almost four hours. When we got to subway Jack immediately collapsed onto one of the wooden benches. The next morning my feet and calves felt like I’d spent all night running in a vat of marbles.
I decided to postpone my run until Sunday.
I ran across the Brooklyn Bridge, over to the East River, up to where the path dead-ends around 30th Street, over to First Avenue, up First almost to the Willis Bridge. I turned left and went over to Fifth Avenue, then down Fifth to around 89th Street, and into the park. At the bottom of the park I zigzagged over and down until I got to Second, then went straight down Second to the Manhattan Bridge and home.
It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny with no humidity, but I felt slow and tired and my legs hurt. After a while my hips hurt, too. Nearly every other runner I saw looked faster and happier. At some point I remembered that first Monday night run I did with the Runners Club, how The National had been playing at Summerstage that night. It seemed like that was way back at the beginning of the summer, but, in fact, it was only August. Still, I’d run probably more than 300 miles since then, and yesterday, I didn’t feel any stronger, faster, or more prepared to run 26.2 miles than when I’d began. If anything, I felt worse. Now I couldn’t even stand still for four hours.
I have a bad feeling about the marathon.
Chasing Elmer
Three good nights in a row, which is possibly a record. Six on Tuesday, fiveish Wednesday and last night. I think I’ll do four tonight, then 22 tomorrow.
Last night my boyfriend was showing me cycling blogs. One of his favorite posts was by The Fat Cyclist, about why he climbs hills. He describes seeing a guy ahead of him on a hill, and getting psyched to pass him. He puts his head down and slowly but surely narrows the distance between himself and the guy. When he’s next to him, he makes polite conversation, then pulls away, leaving the guy gasping.
When The Fat Cyclist saw the guy ahead of him on the bike, he said “hewwo, wabbit,” in an Elmer Fudd voice. Last night, I was running up the hill to the Promenade and saw a guy turn onto the path ahead of me. He looked to be in good shape and running at a decent pace, but once I crested the hill and picked up my speed on the flat, I began thinking I could pass him. I said “I’m coming for you, Pete.” Several U.S. Opens ago, when Andre Agassi was playing Pete Sampras, there was this billboard near the freeway in Oakland that had a picture of Agassi and his challenge to Sampras, and for some reason the words stuck in my head, and became my version of “hewwo, wabbit.”
In a different post, The Fat Cyclist fears he’s being sexist when he refuses to let a female cyclist pass him, but I’m the same way. If I’m running and a guy passes me, I sort of figure, so it goes. If I see a guy up ahead of me, I assume he’ll stay ahead of me, unless he’s clearly running much slower than I am. If it’s a Lady Runner, however, I tend to get competitive and pick up the pace until I pass her, unless she looks like Deena Kastor from behind. If I get passed by a female, it really pisses me off.
I don’t think it’s sexist for TFC to hate getting passed by a girl. I don’t know about cycling, but in running, it’s a basic assumption that men are going to be faster than women. They generally have longer legs, to begin with. After that, there are lots of other theories about the way men and women view competition, the role of testosterone in athletics, etc., but ultimately, as a Lady Runner, I’ve made peace with the fact that even if I was the fastest runner in the world, I’d still be slower than the fastest man. It seems like simple logic that if men are generally faster than women, passing a man generally requires you to run faster than passing a woman.
There’s a tension, though, between acceptance and ambition. I’m not sure how to know my own limitations and be comfortable in my abilities without limiting my expectations for what I can accomplish. Two weeks ago, when I did the 18 mile race, I pretty much resigned myself to the idea of not being able to run a sub-four-hour marathon. I figured I could possibly beat last year’s time by a minute or two, but all evidence indicated that would be the best I could do. I thought, I should just accept that, and be happy with it, and stop tormenting myself about a handful of minutes. Then, last week, I ran the half marathon faster than I ever had before. It surprised the hell out of me, and I started thinking maybe I could achieve my sub-four-hour goal for the marathon. Maybe, as the shoe commercial says, I’m faster than I think.
I picked up my pace a bit and started gaining on the guy. As we ran along the Promenade, something about our relation to the lights changed, and my shadow moved from my side to in front of me, crossing his shadow. I saw him notice this, and wondered if he was going to try to race me. I sped up even more, and passed him. I always feel a little embarrassed for guys when I pass them, so I never look over, let alone make conversation. I kept running hard to the end of the Promenade, listening for his footsteps. The danger in passing someone is maintaining the pace even without a target out in front of you — it’s easy to relax and back off, and then the next thing you know they’re right on your heels again, and you have to speed up, quick, to stay in front. When this happens, it’s clear you’ve been racing them. I prefer it remain an unspoken thing, as though I have no investment in whether I pass them or not, I’m just running at my normal pace, which happens to be much faster than theirs. I turned off the Promenade, keeping up my speed until Hicks, then let myself peek back to see if the guy was behind me. I didn’t see him, so I coasted a bit on the downhill to Atlantic.
Tomorrow is my last long training run. I plan on going slow, eating lots of gels, listening to an audiobook on my iPod. I mapped out a course that will follow the last 10 or so miles of the marathon. It’s supposed to be a beautiful morning, “abundant sunshine,” with a high of 71. Still, I’m dreading the run, and will be so relieved when it’s over. 22 miles is really, really far. I’m not going to try to race anyone.
Advice and Acts of God
Yesterday was a half marathon in Central Park. I had been feeling sick-ish all week, and had been sleeping a lot, so getting up at the perfectly reasonable hour of 7 (as opposed to the previous week’s 5:30) was no problem. The cafe on the corner was open by the time I left my apartment, so I got a coffee, walked to the subway, and the train arrived almost immediately. I got to the start with nearly half an hour to collect my number, eat my banana, get my iPod queued up. I’d just read a stupid story about the importance of being relaxed during competition, so I sat on the bench, trying to relax my face — making ‘sleepy eyes’ as the article suggested. It was a chilly day — overcast, cool, but with little wind.
The race went really well. Two laps clockwise (against the normal flow of exercisers) around the park. I looked at my watch every mile, trying to keep my time under 8.5 minutes. Since it was cool, and I was only running 13 miles, I stopped for water or Gatorade every four miles or so, to conserve time. I listened to a This American Life podcast, and then part of another episode of the Ricky Gervais show. I finished the race in 1:50:13, feeling really good. I thought I would be exhausted when I got home, but I was really energetic the rest of the day — hyper, even. I guess I was excited that I had accomplished a half-marathon in the predictive time for a four hour marathon (well, four hour 30 seconds, if you follow the formula exactly.) The sleepy eyes must’ve been the trick.
It’s all bullshit, of course. I was reading the NY Road Runners magazine last night, and marveled afresh at how much advice billows forth from every conceivable outlet, and how utterly worthless it all is. Every strongly-worded truism I’ve read about running has been contraindicated later — drink a lot, so you don’t dehydrate. No! Don’t drink too much, you’ll get hyponatremia. Eat a lot to maintain your energy. No! Don’t eat too much — you don’t actually burn that many calories, and you may cramp. Carbs are your friend. No, protein is your friend. Sports drinks are your savior. Sports drinks are the devil. Take an ibuprofen before exercising. Don’t think of taking ibuprofen if you want to hold on to your liver and kidneys. Do your long runs 45 (30, 60) seconds slower than your goal race pace. Do at least one long run at or faster than goal pace. Massage aids recovery. Massage slows recovery. Stretching is essential to injury prevention. Stretching has no relationship to incidence of injury. Ice baths are painful but worth it. Ice baths are painful and worthless. Etc., etc., and so forth. Next thing I’ll read is, making ‘awake eyes’ helps you run faster.
So who knows if the magic marathon formula really works? It’s all a mind-game, anyway. As far as I can tell, the number one factor for me, at least, is the weather. The week before, when I did the 18 mile race, I ran slower than 9 minute miles. It was 67 degrees, with 93% humidity. Yesterday, I wasn’t pushing myself any harder, didn’t eat or drink anything different, and ran 8:24 miles. True, yesterday’s race was five miles shorter, but it was also 18 degrees cooler, with 22% less humidity.
Other factors probably contributed to my happy race yesterday — the fact I had slept well not only the night before, but all week; the fact I got there in plenty of time, and drank coffee, and ate a banana; the fact that there seem to be fewer steep uphills if you do the loop clockwise; the fact that the race didn’t start at a time I’m normally asleep. Still, I think weather — the one factor you can’t control — is the one that matters most. Call it the God factor. Or, if that makes you uncomfortable, the Act of God factor, in the insurance policy sense.
I’m scared to look at the forecast for November 2.
Miles is Miles
Sunday morning I got up at 5:30 to do the 18 mile ‘marathon warm-up’ race in Central Park. I hadn’t slept well the night before — I was up late downloading podcasts to my iPod, and then couldn’t fall asleep, probably a combination of nerves and the fact that I had slept in until 9 that morning.
It’s a strange kind of nervousness I get before a race — I’m not worried that I won’t do well, but worried I won’t do it at all. That even though my mind wants to get up, put on my shoes, walk to the subway, and run the race, when the time comes, my body won’t cooperate. It’s like there’s this deep, cellular-level dread of what I’m about to do, and I can’t fully believe I’m really going to go through with it until I’m actually doing it.
But, as always, when my alarm beeped at 5:30, I got up, got dressed, and was off. It was still dark out. I must have just missed the A train, because there were a few people coming up out of the station when I went in, and I had to wait twenty minutes for the next train. More and more runners got on as we got closer to 103rd st.
I walked across the transverse, looking for the registration/number pick-up table. I passed baggage, first aid, the tables with water and gatorade, but no number pick up. I asked a guy and he said it was back at the Road Runners Club, on 89th street. It was five minutes before the start of the race.
Now, I didn’t need to do this race to qualify for the marathon next year — as long as I volunteer at one race and do the marathon, I’ll be in. So it really didn’t matter whether I ran with a little chip attached to my shoe, and number pinned to my shirt, and had my time recorded on the Road Runners website, or just ran as though I was doing a long training run in the company of a few thousand other runners. Miles is miles. Nonetheless, as soon as the guy said that about the numbers, my first thought was, I can go home.
I guess there’s a part of me that hopes I won’t have to do the marathon. That I won’t ever have to run again.
Anyway, I did the race. I listened to an episode of This American Life, and then a podcast of the Ricky Gervais show, and then some hammy actor reading a John Cheever short story. I ate two gels, drank a lot of Gatorade and water, and stole three bagels at the end. Then I ran two more miles, down to the bottom of the park, to make 20.
The Question
About six this morning, and five yesterday morning. Both fine. My spell of effortless running seems to have passed, but it still feels easier than a few months ago.
Yesterday we went sailing with some friends. (There was no wind, so by sailing I mean sitting on a boat in the harbor drinking beer, muttering whenever a jetskier went roaring by, but otherwise having a lovely day on the water.) One friend, Tony, had his shoe off, and one toenail was black and hurt-looking. Even as I was asking, I knew where the conversation would possibly lead. It went where I thought it might, and once again I found myself trying to explain why I run.
I did it to myself. First, by asking about the toenail. Second, by telling the group about ultramarathoners having their toenails removed. Third, by not answering Adam’s question about whether I’m an ‘avid runner’ with a simple yes.
I feel uncomfortable expressing enthusiasm for running — I feel like it portrays me as a different kind of runner, and a different kind of person, than I actually am. At the same time, I know that expressing loathing for an activity you voluntarily do quite a bit of can appear to be begging for a request for clarification, as well as evincing a smug infatuation with one’s own adorably paradoxical nature. I’m allergic to cats but I own sixteen of them! I hate to run but I’m running a marathon! Aren’t I fascinating and complex? Aren’t you dying to learn more? Ugh.
I had a professor once who claimed to have a friend who decided to walk across some landmass (several southern states, I believe, but it could have been a south american country.) People would ask him why, and he would have no answer, and they would get angry. Finally he started saying he was doing it on a bet, and this seemed to satisfy everyone.
I understand the utility of a readymade answer for an oft-asked question. You’re sitting on a boat, it’s hot, you’re not going anywhere — it would seem part of the social compact to move the conversation along with a minimum of fuss. Yes, I am an avid runner is an acceptable answer. No, I don’t really like running, but I do it to stay in shape/feel closer to Jesus/win a bet are acceptable answers. Yes, I run a lot, no, I don’t like it, no, I don’t know why I do it is not an acceptable answer.
To clarify: I am allergic to cats, but I don’t really own sixteen of them.
Event Horizon
Thirteen this morning. I ran to Prospect Park, did two and a half loops, ran back. Starting was rough, but once I reached the park I felt great, and so I tried to push my speed. Even going up the big hill wasn’t a problem.
I ran every night but Friday this week, and every run was near perfect.
There are 47 more days until the marathon. That means my training is just about halfway through. I worry that I am at my peak running ability right now, and once I pass this crest, I will begin the gradual decline down the backside. It would be nice to think that I will only continue to get better from here — that in the remaing weeks until November 2, I will double the improvement I made from August to mid-September. If that were really possible, I’d have an amazing marathon.
Unfortunately, I don’t think it works that way. I think there are limits to the amount you can get better, a setpoint of fitness that is different for everybody. Once you reach your setpoint, you can probably exceed it by a little bit, but it becomes a matter of diminishing returns, and it takes more and more effort to make smaller and smaller improvements.
I saw a documentary on the Discovery Channel where they took a group of completely sedentary people and trained them, in a year, to run the Boston Marathon. One woman dropped out because of shin splints, but the rest of the group finished the race. They weren’t pretty finishes, for the most part — the last runner crossed the line at about six hours, looking like she’d happily pay someone to shoot her. But one guy, who had begun the program just as sedentary, just as out-of-shape as the rest, did amazingly well, coming in just under four hours.
The doctors who had been monitoring the participants’ progress theorized that because this guy had played hockey as a kid, he had some latent athleticism hibernating inside him, and the training had reawakened it. I think, whether he had athletic ability because he played hockey or he played hockey because he had athletic ability is an interesting question, but either way, his setpoint was just much higher (faster?) than the others.
I think I’m at my setpoint. It makes me wish the marathon was next week — tomorrow, even. I feel ready.
More Bears! (Well, One)
Last night we flew home from California. Even though it was a little humid and we had been on a plane all day and I was tired and hungry, we went on a short, fast run. It felt good. I mean, it felt awful, but I was so glad we had done it when we were through. I fell asleep easily last night.
Tonight it was cooler and we hadn’t flown cross-country so we ran longer, almost an hour. It felt effortless. We had run at altitude in California — just once, just a short run — but also had been hiking and swimming and acclimating our lungs to clear, thin air, and I wondered if there weren’t some lingering effects of that working in our favor tonight.
On our short, altitudinous run, we were part-way up the dirt trail behind a campground when Jack came to a stop. The funny thing is, he remembers being behind me and calling me back to him, but I remember him stopping, and me running to where he was standing, very still, looking up the side of the hill bordering the trail. At any rate, when I joined him, either from above or below, he drew my attention to the form of a fast-retreating bear cub. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but it was fast. Mostly I just saw a blur of brown, and heard the rustle of pine branches.
The next day, we were hiking up a steep incline and a pheasant shot out of the bushes and flew across our path. At least, we think it was a pheasant. Again, very fast moving.
I wonder if animals ever get tired of running.
