Originally I wanted to do a ton of speed work to really be able to kick this Half Marathon from one end to the other.  The speed work was put on pause due to my hyper-extended hamstring and plantar fasciitis injuries back in January and early February.  Once I was recovered from the physical injuries, emotional stress took over and colored my life in hues I never imagined possible.

And yet, I never thought about not running the race.  As life unfolded around me, I simply changed my expectations.  Where once I hoped to pull out a huge PR time of 1:35, now I just wanted to run.  I knew this race would be the slowest one yet, but it didn’t matter.  Just showing up would be enough.

Yesterday, I dedicated the day to eating.  I ate every 4 hours with the singular goal of ingesting enough calories so that I could burn 1300 calories on the racecourse without going into deficit the next day.

I got up early this morning, building in enough time to make a big breakfast and drink several glasses of water.  I drove to the Boulder Reservoir and pulled into a parking space 45 minutes before gun time, and sat in my warm car sorting out my gear.  The car thermometer read 31 degrees; I waffled about whether or not to wear the jacket over the long sleeve wicking shirt.  People were walking by on their way to the porta-potties in various stages of dress; long pants and shirts, jackets, women in Capri tights, and a few brave souls in shorts and singlet’s.  I shivered just looking at them and kept the jacket on.

The race started at 8:10am, ten minutes later than the prompt starting time the race directors had promised due to cars still coming into the parking lot.  By the time the starting gun went off I was literally bouncing with excitement; my feet would not stay planted on the earth.  It was time to run.

Eventually.  For now, we walked or bounced slowly, ever so slowly, across the starting mat.  The crush of people didn’t thin out for over a mile.  There was no way to get out of the crowd; I had started too far back.  I had thought to use the first two miles as warm-up, and this is exactly what ended up happening, albeit more slowly than I originally hoped.

After a mile I threw the jacket into the ditch on the right; I would retrieve it on the return trip.  The sun was out and things were warming up.  I dodged around people, trying to get out of the 10-minute mile group and into something in the 8’s.  This was ridiculous.

The course is a literal out-and-back on the Boulder Backroads.  I’ve run these roads so many times in the past year that I know every nuance of the rise and fall of the earth.  Time moves differently when throngs on people surround you on an early spring day than it does when you’re on a solitary training run in the dead of winter.  After the initial paces were sorted out, I enjoyed the gentle ascent of the road as I comfortably chatted with various people around me.

After four miles of easy-peasy running the leader of the return pack made his appearance.  He had already looped at 6.5 miles and was headed back to the finish line.  I called out a cheer, and then kept my eye on the return lane for the chase pack.  How close would they be?

I turned my music on low and let the gentle rhythms carry my feet along.  Tab Benoit, the Indigo Girls, Michael Franti, One EskimO, Adele, Uncle Kracker and Michael Jackson kept me company though the water stations and over large chunks of gravel that sometimes pushed a little too hard into the thin soles of my minimalist Scott shoes.

And then I was at the turn-around point.  I stopped for a super-fast pit stop, then crossed the mat and started my return journey on the backside of the Half.  The Garmin said I was right around 59 minutes for the first half of the 13.1 miles; I wondered if I could negative split this one?  Did I have the energy to pull out some faster miles?  Given the fact that the hill work was all but over, I decided to become a slave to gravity and let it pull me easily back to the finish line.

Splits for the first half:  9:49, 8:41, 8:58, 8:43, 8:57, 8:39, 8:37.

I wore my Nathan hydration vest, the same water system that got me through the California International Marathon in December, and was pleased to find a forgotten, half-eaten package of Clif Gels in one of the front pockets.  I popped a gel in my mouth, only to immediately take it out and try to bite the stale cube in half.  It was hard and stuck in my teeth.  I settled into my pace and worked my jaws, completely entertained by the effort of eating calories that would give me a little boost through the next hour of running.

I was consistently passing people now, and concentrated on finding a hole or scooting around people so that I didn’t tangent too much on the course.  I wasn’t interested in adding on too much distance, something I learned the hard way on the Marathon in Sacramento last year when I blew every tangent and added a good quarter-mile to my total distance.

I glanced at the Garmin from time to time and was happy to see that I was in the low 7-minute range now.  I had dropped a minute from my pace/mile and was well on my way to pulling in a solid negative split.  The legs still felt good, the lungs were in good shape, and I was moving easily.  This was fun.  This was easy.  This was what I was meant to do.

The road was dry and there were sections that had large, loose gravel that jutted sharply upward.  Cows stood on the side and paused in their delicate business of chewing as they quietly watched us run far and fast for no apparent reason.

The miles flew by.  I passed more and more people.  Some were just a hair slower and I had to pick them off.  Some were going at half my pace, and I wondered how in the world they had gotten so far ahead of me before I finally remembered that there were three distance and turn-around options: 10k, 10 mile, and Half-Marathon.  Right… so, many of these fine folks hadn’t gone to the same mat as me.  Okay.

I started looking for someone that was going my same pace, someone that I could anchor to.  There was no one, until finally at mile 10, a big guy in black pants was just ahead of me.  Maybe he saw me coming and didn’t want to get “chicked”, but he picked up his pace and stayed just ahead of me for the next few miles.  I saw him look over his shoulder a time or two, as though gauging how fast I was going and what pace he needed to hit to stay ahead.  I didn’t try to stick to him, but every time I looked up he was still there, pulling me in to the finish line.

I would have followed him into the race shoot but I was distracted with finding my jacket in the ditch.  When I looked at the road again, he was gone and I was turning off into the dead grass and parched earth, pounding down the final stretch to the finish line.  I was starting to feel anaerobic, and knew I had pushed myself to the limits.  It was time to stop running.  Thankfully, I had arrived.

I crossed the finish line and slowed to a walk, taking deep breaths and letting oxygen replenish my system.  A volunteer took the timing chip from my wrist and another woman placed a finisher medal around my neck.  It was over.  I had pulled out a negative split, but wouldn’t know the reality of the numbers until I was standing in the food line, playing with the settings on the Garmin:

8:04, 7:32, 7:19, 7:24, 7:34, 7:23, and a final .1 mile that I didn’t catch because I forgot to stop the Garmin when I went over the finish mat.

The official results say that I ran 13.1 miles in 1:49:59.

Time for the first half:  59:48

Time for the second half:  50:11

This was no PR for me, but I’m thrilled with the race just the same.  It will hold a lot of significance for me when I look back at what I accomplished during a very stressful time in my life, when I wasn’t in shape or ready for a serious race.  I enjoyed myself completely today, and sometimes, that’s the best reason to run.

My recovery period after Marathon Training and the race has gone about ten days too long.  It’s time to get back into a regular routine and pick out a few races.

Marathon training taught me that I need a good amount of exercise to create balance between my energetic brain and my physical body.  Whether this amount of activity is more than what other people need is irrelevant; it’s what I need.  When my body isn’t moving enough, the brain takes that excess energy and starts to spin out of balance.  Marathon training pushed me to a level of exercise that was finally, blissfully, what I needed to stay grounded.  It mellowed me into a relaxed state where I had more grace for myself, and a better capacity for facing the challenges that life throws.

This lack of balance between mind and body sent me into a mild funk that just so happened to fall during the holidays.  I wasn’t sleeping great and was in a low-level state of hyper-activity, never fully being able to relax.  My body sent signals of slight disconnect as well, telling me that I wasn’t doing a good job of keeping the mind and body on an even keel.

This gave me pause.  A low-grade funk can easily morph into depression, and that’s a bad place to land. I start heading down that dangerous road when I’m not feeling nurtured or cared for, and I retreat into myself to create a safe haven where I try to feel “right” again.  I forget that I’m the one who’s falling down on the job of caring for myself.  Sometimes retreating inward works, but usually not.

The problem is that retreating from people and life doesn’t make me feel happy.  It stops the incessant soul beating that I create, but doesn’t do anything about getting me to feel right again.

My “Ah-Ha!” moment came last night when I realized that my lack of movement and regular running is affecting my mood.  I’m spinning out of my head like a whirling dervish.  The balance is gone.

But not for long.  As soon as I put words to the feelings of despair and sense of being unanchored, I immediately felt better.  Talking with Bill about it helped too; he’s felt my irritation, anxiety and inability to get grounded.  My family and I both need me to increase my physical activity level so that my brain settles down.  Balance.  We all need me to find that balance that I lost when Marathon Training ended.

So, life is all about balance.  I’m working on rearranging the family budget right now; assessing expenditures and cutting corners.  Bill and I had talked about not racing at all this year as a cost-saving measure, but based on the reality of my emotional health, we’ll add in enough money for me to be able to race on occasion.  Races are a goal to work toward, a reason to get up in the morning and move the body.

Prioritizing myself keeps me out of a funk.  I’ve talked about writing up a Base Training plan for the next eight weeks but I haven’t done it.  I’ve waffled around the house, wondering if I should run on a foot that’s still recovering from plantar fasciitis, wondering if my weak glutes, abs and back are strong enough to embark on a new strength training regimen, wondering if I’m selfish for wanting to run another race.

The answer to all those things is YES… time to get moving.  Movement creates momentum, which creates possibilities and a zest for life.  It’s time to race.

Last night I registered Bill, Sophie and myself for the Lafayette Quicker Quaker Oatmeal 5k on January 8.  Sophie is excited to run a 5k with us, and I’m ready to try the body on a short course.

Afterwards we settled onto the bed with the computer, researched local races and put together a list of possibilities.  The mere fact that I can consider possibilities and then backtrack to create a training plan for them makes me feel like I’m on the right track.  My mood immediately lifted and I slept better than I have in weeks.

I woke up at 5:00 this morning to head out for a little run before loading the kids in the car to head to the mountains for their ski/snowboard lesson.  I made time for them to do something they enjoy, and I made time for me to do something I enjoy.

And that, dear soul, is balance.  I took care of them after I took care of myself.

I met Juli, Beth and Kathy at the race instead of carpooling with them.  There were smiles and hugs all around, which helped keep us warm.  We’re used to 60-70 degree temps at that hour of the morning, but the 9000’ elevation lowered the temp to a solid 50 with a mild breeze.  I had originally planned on running in a tank top and shorts, but moments before we headed up the trail I ditched the tank top and re-pinned my race number to the front of my long-sleeve overshirt.  It was loose-fitting but I figured it would ward off the chill.

Bill and the kids headed to the outskirts of the racers so they wouldn’t be trampled.  Two seconds before the gun went off I heard “Go, Lara, Go!” and turned to wave at my family.  It was super-awesome having them there; at that moment, I could have worn the tank top and been perfectly warm.

Moments before the starting gun went off, I got a cheer from the fam. YAY!!

That being said, let’s back up to 18 hours before the race.  Saturday afternoon I did something super-scary; I told my husband exactly how I felt.  I was hurt that he didn’t seem interested in coming to my races and cheering.  Typically I register for a few races each year, less than a handful.  He waits for a signal of some sort that I want him there, and I wait to see if he seems interested in coming.  It’s a vicious cycle that has lead to resentment on my part, because I finally realized that he only came to a race if I told him I wanted him there, thus negating the gift of his presence.

In this new era of breaking out of old patterns, I told him how hurt I was that he didn’t seem interested in watching me race.  He listened and was so compassionate and apologetic; I knew that he never meant to belittle my racing or running life, but the hurt came from years of complacency.  We cleared a lot of air that afternoon and spoke some truths about the state of our relationship and how we need to continue talking about the deep, scary feelings that we tend to bury.  I may be strong in body, but I still have to work on strength in spirit if I want to gain any ground.

The starting gun went off at 7:30 sharp.  I was near the front pile of humanity so I’d have a fighting chance of getting in front of the slower people and not have to pass so many on a narrow single-track.  The first 0.6 miles was a steep, steady hill.  I wore my Garmin to track the time, knowing I’d lose signal occasionally due to terrain and wouldn’t have an accurate count on distance or pace.  My heart rate elevated quickly and didn’t come down until I passed through the finisher’s shoot.

Mirroring last year’s race, people sorted themselves out pretty quickly.  Hills are a rough way to start any race, and if you’re strong on hills you’ll be near the front of the pack.  I already knew that I wasn’t headed for a PR, so didn’t worry too much about pace.  Exertion would be my indicator of how fast I traveled, and I had made up my mind to just have a good time.

The sky was overcast and a cool breeze sifted through the forest from time to time.  I didn’t even wear my sunglasses, figuring that if the sun came out during the race I wouldn’t want them anyway because of the shadows.

Around mile 2 I heard voices up ahead, cheerful happy voices that came from people not running a race.  The first aid station was just ahead.  As I reached for a cup of water and slowed to drink a sip, a volunteered counting each person that came through said I was number 66.  Knowing there were a whole lot of men in front of me cooled my competitive juices a hair (I don’t worry too much about the men in the pack, just the women).  Just keep running, I told myself.  You’re doing just fine.

Moments later, I was winding down the mountain again.  The noise from the aid station faded and with all the twists and turns of the trail, I found myself keeping an eye on the closest runner, a guy out of reach and earshot. No one was running on my tail and I was suddenly… alone.

The easy breeze that rustled the treetops high above me broke the stillness of the mountain.  Birds chirped and the soft thud of my footsteps as my shoes fell on the squashy path.  I had the eerie feeling of being the last person in the race, as there was no noise behind me to change that impression.  My mind wandered from the immediacy of the event to a Zen little happy place I like to visit when I run, and I felt myself relax.  The self-imposed pressure of the race melted away and I was just a runner hanging out on a really cool trail on a cool Sunday morning.

My mellow lasted a few minutes, long enough for me to visit a few daydreams before finally hearing a heavy breather coming up from behind.  He idled about 10 yards behind me for a while, until finally I glanced over my shoulder to see who was struggling so hard.  It was a man, about my height, who carried his stooped shoulders with one side significantly higher than the other.  We played leap-frog for the next couple miles, with him passing me on the uphills and me passing him on the downs.  On the last big hill of the race he passed me once and for all.

And then, the moment of truth.  Paul the Race Director told us there was a section of deep water on the trail, and there was nothing to do but go through it.  Duly warned, I was glad to be wearing SmartWool socks inside my trail shoes.  They wouldn’t keep me dry, but they would keep blisters from forming while running in wet footwear.

The water was at the bottom of a steep hill.  I caught up to my friend Juli at the top of the hill and passed her coming down, which meant I got to the water first.  Juli slowed down, not sure how deep it was or how rocky the bottom would be.  Foolishly, I took my cue from the runners ahead of me and plowed forward with full gusto.  If you’re going to get wet, then you may as well go for it with your whole being.  No sense holding back, is my theory.

The water was up to my knees, and cool but not cold.  Luckily the bottom of the trail was relatively clear and I didn’t turn my foot.  The grasses growing nearby held the mud in place, and after 25 yards of a lovely little stream crossing, I was back on dry land.  My shoes squished for a few steps until I squished the excess water from them, and even though my feet were sopping wet, I was pretty darn comfortable.

Juli passed me on another hill and as we descended one last time, I heard cheers.  There were some pretty enthusiastic people at the finish line, and it made me smile.  The last crossing was a meadow that had no trail, so the best thing to do was follow the crushed grass that other runners had trampled and try to avoid rocks.  Volunteers stood at the opposite side of the meadow to point us in the right direction to the finish line, and after getting back on the dirt trail I cruised to the bottom.

Standing above the finish line were my people.  Sophie was screaming herself hoarse, yelling “YAY, MOMMY,” followed by girl-shrieks that hit a high soprano register.  Connor was yelling and using Bill’s phone to take a picture of me, and Bill used our camera to take another pic.  He had the biggest grin on his face and yelled encouragement for me as I finished the race.  Compared to them the other spectators were the walking dead.  My family was smiling and taking pictures, and screaming my name.  What an amazing, beautiful feeling.

Connor's pic of me on the iPhone... photographer in the making, perhaps?

Bill's picture on the Nikon camera... huge smile, really happy!!

A volunteer cut the timing chip from my shoe and after Bill handed me a bottle of water and I was released from a massive family bear hug, I hugged Juli.  She was tickled to have people cheering for her at the finish line too, and thanked Bill and the kids for being there.  We headed back to the finish and waited for Beth and Kathy to come around the corner, and took pictures and cheered like crazy for them as they ran the last 50 yards into the shoot.  They had huge smiles on their faces, too.  It’s really hard to not smile when people are yelling your name and screaming after you just did a crazy-hard trail race!

We headed over to a coffee shop and I peeled my wet shoes and socks from my feet, breathing a sigh as sunshine hit my tootsies.  It was a blissful way to spend Sunday morning, and I’m incredibly grateful to my kids and Bill for getting up at 5:30, driving to Nederland and hanging out at the base of a mountain while I ran myself silly.

P.S.  After all that, the stats feel like an afterthought.  I ran a 55:44 for the race and came in 7^th in my age-group.  Don’t know what my pace was because the exact distance is unknown due to the last-minute course changes.  It was probably between 9-9.3k overall, so an estimated 9:30-9:45 pace.

1.  RACES!!!  I’m in the mood to race, and am succumbing to peer pressure.  My dear friend Gwen keeps saying “Boston is in your future”.  I never really had the urge to run Boston, but maybe, just maybe, I could qualify and then do it?  A bucket-list sort of mentality, at the very least.  That being said, to qualify for Boston means I need to run my FIRST EVER MARATHON.  That’s right, folks, Lara’s longest races have been Half’s.  I’m thinking of making the California International Marathon (CIM) my maiden voyage.  Gwen ran CIM last year and tried to talk me into it.  Last year I wasn’t ready, but this year? I’m ready to give it a shot!  Question:  what’s your favorite method for training for a marathon?  Who has the best tips?  I’m open to all suggestions!

2.  I just registered for the LaSportiva Eldora 11K Trail Race, held in Eldora, CO on August 8.  That’s in a week and a half.  Those of you following this blog know that I’m just coming back from a long vacation and the flu, which means my endurance and strength is pretty low.  I’ve had a few good runs this week, but don’t have any illusions that I’ll be PR’ing at this race.  I’m going to have a good time, and that’s about it.  Is anyone else running this race next weekend?  Come on, it’ll be fun!

3.  I’d like to do a Half in September, and am thinking about the Boulder Backroads Half Marathon on September 12.  It’s pricey for a Half, which might actually make me look elsewhere for a more reasonable race.  I’ve heard this race is great, but $80 for a Half?  Yikes.  Do you know of an awesome Half in September somewhere in the Colorado area that’s under $50?  If so, PLEASE tell me about it!

4.  I’ve been working with a nutritionist/acupuncturist on my chronic digestive issues.  I’m cautiously optimistic that she has recognized some pieces in the puzzle, and that the supplements and treatments will actually make things improve.  She says that if this works, I should actually have more energy within a few weeks, and a ton more in 4-6 weeks.  This is huge.  Will add more to this later, when I have something concrete to report.

5.  I gained about 3 pounds this past month, and feel incredibly flabby.  There’s a roll that hangs out over my bikini bottom now, and I’m incredibly self-conscious about it.  Here’s the funny thing though; when I complained about it to my husband, he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about.  He LIKES the softness of my belly, and what makes me cringe is actually something that is desirable.  I’m still a little flummoxed by this difference in perception between us, and need to think on this some more.  Men and women, what’s your perspective on a little belly softness in an athletic woman?

Okay, that’s all I’ve got right now.  I have to go look at a bug house my daughter made out of sticks and bark.  See ya this weekend after my Saturday morning run!

Because the race is (now) less than three weeks out, I’m focusing on tempo runs and speed work.  I’m not worried about the distance; I can do 13.1 miles any day.  A few days ago, Kathy chose Bobolink Trail in east Boulder county for our Saturday run because of the forecasted snow; if we got a lot, Bobolink is relatively flat and a few miles from the Foothills, where snow means breaking trail and running on icy hills.  Bobolink is a better bet when you don’t know if there will be snow.

And, there wasn’t.  The snow held off until Saturday afternoon, giving us an overcast, cool morning.  I wore running tights and a pullover, as well as my SmartWool glove liners (I’ve mentioned my love affair with these beauties in pervious posts) and a new Nike skullcap that has a pony tail hole in the back.  Heidi, our “weather barometer”, arrived in shorts and a long sleeve tech shirt with her Nike skullcap (in a different color) and gloves.  If Heidi is in shorts, that means the temp is 40 degrees or above.

Heidi and I took off at the front of the group and stayed there.  She’s feeling mostly recovered from the Kona Ironman race in October and is finally ready for a little more speed work.  We chatted easily through the miles, and she was game for extending at the back end.  Bobolink is an out-and-back, so we went to the end of the trail (3.36 miles) and back to the parking lot (3.36 miles) and then headed out again, stopping at the underpass of South Boulder Road (1.25 miles) and turning around (1.25 miles).

On the third leg of our journey we started talking about iPods and music.  I asked if she listens to an iPod when she runs (answer: sometimes, and with only one earbud) and what she listens to (answer:  Coldplay, Natalie Merchant and 10,000 Maniacs).  I told her what my latest faves are (Michael Jackson’s “Will You Be There”, Tab Benoit (Louisiana Cajun/Blues), Barenaked Ladies “If I Had a Million Dollars“, Cake, Cracker).  Glancing at my Garmin, I noticed we had mysteriously picked up pace while we were talking about music, and were now at a 7:30 pace instead of the 8:00/miles we had been holding for the first hour.  Heidi mentioned the marathon runner who was DQ’d at the Lakefront Marathon in October because she used an iPod between miles 19-21, some of the hardest miles in a marathon.  It’s illegal for elites to use iPods because of the “energy boost” you get when with music, so she was stripped of her winning title after some pictures of her with the iPod surfaced on the Internet.

Conversation ensued about the idea of finding your own mental reserves, and how racing pushes people to get away from the crutch of outside stimulation (an iPod, a training partner) and find personal inner strength.  Heidi has a lot to say on this topic, as she just went through ten months of training; first for Oceanside, where she qualified for Kona, and then training for Kona.  Sometimes she trained with people, going on runs or riding with someone.  Sometimes she trained solo.  Having a training partner broke up the monotony of seven hour rides, but it didn’t train her for being on the race course without a buddy.  So, she made an effort to fit in training runs and rides where she went out solo, thus preparing herself to get through the hard patches by dipping into her inner strength.

Mark Allen and Brant Secunda discuss this concept in their book “Fit Soul, Fit Body”.  Athletes (elite, average, and everyone in between) must train their brains and souls for the work that is required over the long haul.  This training spills into everyday life, where a person will inevitably come upon a situation where inner fortitude is the only thing there is to rely upon.  Us average folk look at elite athletes like Josh Cox or Lance Armstrong and sometimes wonder where they get their perseverance, tenacity, and drive, while also being flexible in the face of unforeseen circumstances that are out of their control.  Those qualities are attainable by every person, should they choose to give up the crutches that keep them stuck in second gear.

Athletes train hard, season after season.  Workouts are logged, miles are covered, sweat is shed.  The mind needs to be exercised and trained at the same time.  When one is comfortable with their own mind and solitude, the deepest reserves of inner strength are available to draw from during any time of need.

During the two weeks of ramped up tempo runs and speed work as I get ready for the Las Vegas Half Marathon, I’m going to spend equal time training my mind to plumb the depths of my inner strength and working on my physical capabilities.  This “inner training” will last eons after my muscles recover from any speed workout I do.

How about YOU??  How do you train your mind and soul for hard workouts, races, and the curves that life throws at you?  Does your athleticism distract you from digging deeper, or complement your efforts?

The race started at 8:00 just outside Nederland on the Eldora ski hill.  We rolled in a little before 7:30 and leisurely applied sunscreen, visited the john and stood around shivering.  The group of racers assembling in the parking lot was a lot smaller than the crowds I’ve recently seen at the 5430 Sports triathlons held at the Boulder Reservoir this summer, which was a nice change.  It’s always nice to try out a relatively new race in the quiet of your own backyard without the heavy breathing and stink of 1500 of your closest friends.

A few minutes before race time we gathered at the start line to hear Paul, the race director, say a few words.   In a nutshell he said: “Thanks for giving me another chance.  This year, no one will get lost.  The course is very well marked; don’t go through the white tape, and turn where the little signs are.  The ground is really saturated; try to avoid the big puddles of mud, they’re about 8 inches deep.”

I grinned to myself; I really like mud and a nice, saturated ground.  Forest running is a total high for me and I was ready.

Like cows being corralled, we jammed through the starting area with mincing steps so as to not trip over someone else’s feet.  Luckily this lasted less than a minute before the racers found their paces and magically there was room for arm swinging and long strides over mud puddles.  Juli and Shari were a few steps ahead of Susan and me and within two minutes we lost them in the crush of people.

Starting at the base of Eldora there is no where to go but UP.  We climbed steadily for a little over a mile before leveling off in a meadow for a few minutes of quick recovery before starting another huge climb.  Water and Gatorade was available at Mile 2, handed out by those wonderful, friendly volunteers that make a race go smoothly or tank.  As I partook in a few sips of water Susan came up from behind; she had me in her sights the whole time. 

Immediately after the water station we went down a steep single-track and I lost her again.  I’m usually pretty good on downhills and can pick up some speed during my controlled hurtle to the bottom.  As we came out of the decline and started climbing again, Beth of the Infinite Legs came up from behind and easily worked her way up the hill.  I’m more of “the little engine that could” and kept chugging away, watching her graceful ascent as she passed the nearest ten people before she was out of sight.

A few minutes later I heard her laughing up ahead.  As I drew around a bend I saw her standing next to the trail with a smile on her face, telling people to pass her.  “You okay?” I asked.  “Yup, I just don’t have the downhill legs, you go ahead!” she said cheerfully.  So we all went ahead and did another controlled descent on a beautiful section of single-track, carefully aiming the feet at the sturdiest pile of mud so as to not roll ankles or step in the muck.  I wore my trusty Adidas trail shoes so there was a sense of security that my feet wouldn’t slip in the mud, but still; there’s only so much shoes can do.

And so it went.  Lots of ups, a few downs, and after the second water station we were directed up another hill and ordered to “stay to the LEFT!”  After a moment I could see why racers were being corralled again; people were hurtling down the trail on the opposite side as if their butts were on fire.  I idly wondered what race those very fast people were running and turned to chat with the person next to me except his head was down and he wasn’t interested in talking.

We climbed the ridge and turned right on the hairpin turn and then suddenly I was one of those incredibly fast people hurtling down the mountain.  Ahhh, I see… this section was a brief out-and-back.  Now that the climb was over it was time to pick up the pace and go “all out”.  As I descended I checked the runners on their way up, looking for any of my friends.  I didn’t see anyone, so either they were further back or they were past the viewing point and only a few paces behind me.

I had been playing leap-frog with a tall, black-haired guy.  I would pass him, he would pass me a few minutes later, and so on.  We did this four or five times until ultimately I passed him and left him behind.  His breathing was ragged and noisy.  That’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to, the jagged breathing that sounds like a person is in a knuckles bared, raw fight for every ounce of oxygen possibly coerced into the body.  Honestly, if you’re having that much trouble inhaling oxygen, is running a race a GOOD idea?

After the last water station a young woman and I pulled each other through.  She had a few inches on me and was about ten years younger.  I could hear her coming up from behind and on an open section of moderate uphill she crept past me.  My GPS had stopped tracking mileage as there was no satellite signal up here, so I didn’t know how much farther the finish line was and didn’t want to bust a lung to keep my lead over her.  I kept to her heels though, until she stopped short and said “Whoa” as she looked at the steep downhill we had to navigate.  As I said before, downhill is an old friend to me; I regained my lead easily and showed her the path down. 

Coming down the last section I started hearing generators below me; we were almost home.  The young woman had regained her lead after the downhill and now I worked to close it.  I imagined that we were coming down the hill from Dowdy Draw in Eldorado Canyon and let it all out the last half mile to the parking lot.  Knowing that it really wasn’t even half a mile made the last quarter mile go fast; I passed her easily and flew into the finish shoot with Juli and Shari whooping and hollering my name.

We stood in front of the finish shoot and hollered for Susan, Beth, Beth, Kathy and Jacqueline.  We were all there and congratulated Jack on not falling anywhere along the course.  After grabbing bottles of water, bananas and packets of Justin’s Nut Butter from the food line, we climbed into the van and headed down the road to the New Moon Coffee Shop for a well-deserved cup of coffee.  Relaxing in the warmth of the Colorado sunshine on the porch of the coffee shop, talking and laughing for an hour before loading up again and heading back down the canyon, we agreed that this was a fabulous use of our time and worth doing again.  Any time, ladies… any time.

Thus, I’ve spent the past week reflecting on my first Half Marathon, the Colorado Marathon in Fort Collins on May 3, 2009. I’ve come away with a few realizations. Obviously I can’t just list them; here’s the story:

When I first started training for this race I based my expected time off of my friend’s race time at a Half-Marathon in Arizona earlier this year; she finished with a 1:27:something. That calculated to roughly 6:30/mile. Back in February I figured that since we run together on Saturdays and I never get left behind that I should be able to do the same thing.

Note here that many people do this; we look at a friend’s accomplishments and assume that we have the same ability. The key word here is ASSUME.

As my training progressed and I did more tempo runs and long runs I noticed my times. A pattern emerged; I was doing 8:00/miles consistently, with some miles in the 7:00 minute range and some closer to 8:30/mile. Given the fact that I have no desire whatsoever to go out so hard that I’m puking my guts out or land in the E.R. with severe dehydration, I figured I could probably run eight minute miles over a long distance. Final analysis: Based on doing 8:00/mile I could expect to finish the race in an hour and forty five minutes.

Last week I had a great race. My body felt good, I didn’t feel like I pushed myself past all realistic limits, and afterwards I was tired but not totally wiped out. I had energy to go to my son’s flag football game in the afternoon and help out at their elementary school’s gardening day.

I finished the race in one hour, forty five minutes, and forty nine seconds, which means I ran an average of 8:04 per mile. Emotionally I am not so much happy, or proud of myself; rather, I am content to the very core. I trained for the race and examined my potential realistically. I saw myself as the athlete that I AM, not based on another person’s performance, athletic ability, or my own mocked-up version of who I should be. I did something that four years ago I couldn’t imagine ever doing, and I did it based on the person that I’ve grown into. During the race I didn’t let myself get pulled into running a pace that was unrealistic for me, and I enjoyed every minute of running on a beautiful spring morning in Colorado. There were no rose-colored glasses on this sweaty face.

A few days ago an acquaintance I know from my kids’ school asked me about my race.

Me: It was a lot of fun! It was such a beautiful day up there, perfect for running.

Her: I have a friend who was there, she qualified for Boston.

Me: Wow. Good for her. I didn’t have any illusions that I would qualify, I just wanted to see what I could do.

Her: Yeah. She races a lot. That’s the point of racing though, isn’t it? Why race if you’re not trying to get faster?

At this point I gracefully exited the conversation in favor of taking a wheel-barrow full of mulch for a ride. I respectfully disagree with her rhetorical question on so many levels. “Why race if you’re not trying to get faster?”

Why indeed? And this seems to be the million-dollar question. I race to push myself out of my comfort zone, to show myself that I can set a goal and get there, that I have the tenacity to follow through with things that might seem insurmountable, that I can create balance in my life, that I can see myself realistically and know what my boundaries are. That’s why I race. Running is a part of my life, but it’s not my WHOLE life. It’s an aspect that has taught me so much over the many months and seasons that I’ve cruised the streets and trails of Boulder County. Focus, determination, cross-training, balance, tenacity and rest; these are areas that I work on as an athlete and these same skills are slowly, incessantly, seeping into the rest of my life.

Holy cow, there’s hope for me yet!

I did it!  I came, I saw, I ran a few miles.  I prepped, tapered, and raced.  The Colorado Marathon fell on a beautiful spring day in the mountains and streets of Fort Collins.  The sun was shining, the river water was rushing, and ultimately, no one I knew saw me finish.  It was apropos, really; the wins that mean the most are the ones where no one is there to cheer.

The day started out the night before, as it always does for racers.  Bill and I left the kids at my Mom’s house in Boulder for a sleep-over, then went home and crawled into bed at 8 PM.  The alarm was set for 3:50 AM in hopes we would get at least eight hours of sleepy-time.  Luckily I was pretty tired and drifted off quickly.

The next morning we made coffee and egg sandwiches and were out the door by 4:20.  I had to be on a bus between 5:00 and 5:45 to get up to the starting line and didn’t want to arrive at 5:45 to find that all the busses were gone.  At 5:25 we pulled up to the parking garage. I jumped out, kissed Bill goodbye and joined the surge of people descending on the line of busses waiting to take us up the mountain.

I sat next to a friendly woman named Sarah who came up from Denver.  It was her birthday and she was doing a Half-Marathon to celebrate.  Her husband was injured and couldn’t run, but she hoped he would do something to surprise her later that day.  We hung out together at the starting line for the next hour, chatting, laughing, and doing some moderate stretches.  I was glad to have someone to talk with.  I lost sight of her at the very end when she went to do a warm-up jog and I wandered away to check my bag.

Racers started congregating as we neared the 7:00 AM start time.  A couple of volunteers led us down the road to the starting line.  Police were on the right-hand side of the road calling to us through bull horns to stay on the left.  The start line was a timing mat on the road between two cones.  The volunteers funneled us through the cones, over the mat, and we were off.  I started the timer on my GPS, knowing full well that the per-mile pacing my GPS keeps is always a little off of the actual time at the finish line.  The point of it is to get a general feeling for a pace, not a die-hard time.

The sun hadn’t broken through the wispy clouds left over from the previous day’s thunderstorms.  All the easy banter between runners was gone and the only sounds were of pounding feet and rushing water.  The Cache La Poudre River runs parallel to the road.  The aural sensation of the two diametrically opposed sounds was somehow transcendent and hypnotic at the same time.  The pace was easy as we started out; no one started in a sprint.  The runners knew the distance and were ready to go out slow and steady for the first couple miles.  I took some deep, calming breaths, and smiled.  The pace felt good.  No, the pace felt GREAT.  I could do this.

Coming up on mile five we hit the one and only hill.  It was a piddly thing, more like a bump in the terrain, and took us into the next aid station.  My GPS read forty minutes; if that was true then I was dead-on for an eight minute per mile pace.  I grabbed a cup of water and slowed to drink it, then ducked into a porta-potty for a pit stop.  Less than two minutes later I was running again, heading south.   The sun had made its appearance and I was heating up in my Smart Wool hat and gloves.  I should have left them in my bag at the start line instead of wearing them.  People were shedding their gloves and throwing them on the side of the road.  Later, after the race, volunteers combed the course to collect all the cast-offs and donate them to charity.  That’s a nice idea, but I wasn’t interested in forking out the money to replace these items.  I carried them in my sweaty hand for the remainder of the race.

My right hip was starting to talk to me about this point.  More specifically, it was tight.  Not horrible, nothing to make me stop or scream in pain; just tight.  Everything else felt great.  The lungs were doing that expanding/contracting thing with awesome regularity, my shoulders were loose and breezy, and my feet felt great.

Coming up on mile ten it occurred to me that I should start to push pace for a strong finish.  The problem was that I didn’t want to.  I didn’t know if I had enough “oomph” left for a fast 5K at the end.  I decided to go another mile and see how I felt at that point.

At mile twelve a runner pulled up along side me.  I had been tailing her in the early part of the race and then passed her around mile seven.  She was starting to push pace for the end.  Her pace looked strong so I accelerated just a hair and stuck to her.  We ran in tandem.

Me:  “You’re a strong runner!”

Her:  “You’re pretty strong yourself, I’ve been trying to catch you for the past four miles!”

Me:  “Well, you’re pulling me along now, so Thanks!”

I don’t have enough will-power to push myself that hard all by my lonesome; that’s why it helps me to have a friend to push pace when the going gets tough.  We started passing runners left and right, including an older gentleman whose every breath sounded like it could be his last.

I could hear the crowd.  Spectators were lining the road up to the finish line.  My buddy pulled out the stops and led us on a strong sprint to the end.  I kept up with her and allowed myself to be reeled in like a fish on a pole.  The sun was hot and I could feel the dried sweat on my face.  I didn’t bother looking for Bill in the crowd, just pushed hard to the very end.  The announcer called my name as I crossed the finish line.  The clock read 1:45:49.

Someone pressed a finisher medal into my hand.  Another person gave me a bottle of water and cut the timing chip off my shoe.  I exited the chute and went to wait for Bill. 

Half an hour later he finally showed.  He had been standing at the front of the spectators and never saw me.  He hadn’t heard the announcer say my name as I finished because the sound was garbled at that distance.  He kept waiting for me to come through; after the two hour race time came and went he went to the paramedics to see if they had brought anyone in, then started a circuit around the area looking for me.  By that time I had climbed onto a bench and was standing there, trying to look obvious to anyone looking for a sweaty girl in a red shirt.  I was too mellow to be irritated or panicked and figured we’d meet up somewhere, at some point.  I was almost ready to borrow someone’s phone to call him when he wandered up.

Thus, there are no pictures from the race.  I took a picture of the finisher medal a few days later, since it’s so pretty and shiny.

I loved the 13.1 distance and can’t wait to do another Half.  I’ve heard Estes Park has a good one, the Slacker Half Marathon in Georgetown looks interesting, or the Buena Vista Autumn Colors Run.  Anyone have any experience with these?  Or, suggest a different one to try, I’d love to hear of some great races!

An example of this week’s training:  yesterday I ran a total of 2 1/2 miles.  The first two miles were done at my goal half-marathon pace (about 7:15/mile), and then I did four 100- meter “Strides”, where you gradually accelerate to 90% of all-out pacing, hold for five seconds, and walk to recovery.  It was a fun little outing, all fifteen minutes of it.  How can anything that short feel like a good work-out?  The answer is: it’s not supposed to.

I looked up the race info again this morning and was not pleased to see that I have to be on a bus to the starting line at 5:30 in the morning.  The race doesn’t start until seven.  I didn’t remember that it started sooooo early when I registered!!  This means I’ll be up at 4:00 AM, and moving my butt out the door.  Definitely not a happy-happy.  Can you say “Coffee please”?

I have some pre-race nerves going on, as usual.  They all have to do with finding the right place and being where I’m supposed to be at the right time.  My good friend was supposed to run with me, but alas, the race was closed when she tried to register.  I was so excited to have a buddy to pace with, and am now trying for a Zen mentality to go with the reality that it’s all me, by my lonesome.  It’ll be what it is, whether I worry about it or not.

Saturday morning I’ll be doing a piddly little 3-miler, trying for a 9:00/mile pace.  Have to keep it “easy”, according to the training plan.  I’ll be headed up to Ft. Collins to get my race packet later that day, and then will head to bed un-Godly early to try to make up for the fact that I’ll be up too early for comfort.  Maybe I’ll try to start going to bed early for the rest of the week, and waking up early.  That would help switch my internal time clock so the effort of getting up at 4:00 AM will seem reasonable.

The next post will be on how the race went, so look for it early next week!

I have a half-marathon race coming up in two weeks and my training is on hold.  I’ve wanted to run a half-marathon for three years now and have been sidelined because of injury.  Now, only four weeks before this third attempt at the half-marathon, I fell hard on a patch of ice.  My first thought as I lay on the ice was not “Is anything broken?”, but “Awww, not again”.  I have a nagging suspicion that I am sub-consciously sabotaging myself.

So that’s the big question; why am I doing this to myself?  I know I can run thirteen miles.  I could do that any day of the week and it wouldn’t be a stretch.  Somehow, the difference seems to be in my ability to run the distance any time I want, and doing it in the confines of a race surrounded by hundreds of other people.  Some of the people will undoubtedly be faster than me, and some will be slower.

I don’t harbor any illusions that I’ll be winning anything in this race.  I could easily be called an “above average” runner, but I’m not the faster girl on the block or even in my age group.  Therefore, I can safely cross “fear of losing” off my list of possible reasons my body is holding back.

Something about the idea of being able to run thirteen miles in the privacy of my own life, and then doing it in a race is striking a chord.  I adore the freedom of choosing when and where to run.  But when the ante is upped, I’m left wondering if I can rise to the occasion.  I’ve found plenty of reasons in the past to NOT do the things I’ve yearned to do (travel, a career, becoming a master gardener).  And yet, when I’ve really and truly wanted something, like obtain a Master’s degree, I’ve found support and the means that I needed to succeed.  I’m left with the nagging question; do I have an unrequited fear of success, of being seen as a person who is accomplished and capable?

To break it down even further, I have to go back to a recurring theme in my life; a fear of being seen.  As a high school student I loved theater but fought tooth-and-nail against being on stage, even when it became clear that I had strong potential as an actor.  I became a stagehand, so that I could participate in the darkness, undercover, incognito.  I resisted being in high-profile classes, being on a team of any sort, dressing or even talking in a way that would cause me to be noticed.  As it was, loads of unwanted attention came my way anyway, and I was often flustered and uncomfortable.

Fast forward to the present.  I’m more comfortable in my skin and have lost many of the inhibitions of speaking in public, wearing pretty colors, and generally being noticed.  I earned my Master’s degree in Environmental Policy and Management and have started a part-time job where I meet people and interact with them on a daily basis.  I’m comfortable saying what I think and standing up for my self, kids, morals, ethics, etcetera.

What does this have to do with a half-marathon?  It hasn’t escaped me that running a race is a metaphor for many aspects of my life.  For some reason I’ve created a “mock-up” of what this race is supposed to be and how I fit into the picture, just as I’ve created pictures of what my life should look like.  I’ve toyed with the idea of dropping out of the race and using the excuse of injury.  Certainly an injury is a valid excuse, except that I’m not severely injured and I know for a fact that it would be a major cop-out.

I’m venturing into uncharted territory.  I’m stretching my current mold and I have no idea what I’m going to look like when all this transformation is finished.  A few months ago Karley made a very astute comment about the past four years.  “You’ve gone to great lengths to transform yourself and re-make yourself into the woman you want to be.”  This is true.  It’s a scary process but I’m coming out the other side stronger, wiser and more confident.  The depths that I’m traveling are hard and scary, but it’s work that I have to do.  Therefore, I think that I have to go forward with this race and come out at the finish line.  Something about the process of racing and stepping up to the plate to play holds a key to some intensely uncomfortable personal growth.