Depends What You Call a Good Time

We were at the marathon expo Saturday afternoon to pick up our numbers. Vendors displayed fun Outer Banks clothes and gear. But I thought, I'm not buying anything. If I don't qualify, I'm going to hate the Outer Banks Marathon.

Not true. In short, I didn't qualify, but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. 

My dear friend Dee stayed with me the whole way, from the national anthem to the finish. We ran a wonderful first half, along the sound, through neighborhoods where early morning spectators thanked us for being there (that's a first) and then inland through pine forest on a soft trail. At 10 miles we were 4 minutes ahead of pace and I felt strong, and proud to have that cushion. We've got this, I thought, and I feel better than I have in a long time on a run. 

At mile 13 we left the woods and trails for the open highway and bright sun. Temperatures were starting to climb -- they maxed out close to 70. Very warm for running. I was drinking at the water stops every two miles, more than I've ever taken in at a race, and yet I couldn't stay hydrated. At mile 16 I sunk into a scary place -- I can't slow down my breathing, my stomach is roiling from so much to drink, I can't do this. I pulled myself out of that hole a few times, which I'm proud of. (Dee, fit as a fiddle, was holding a conversation with me the whole morning, pointing out sights and such, and I merely nodded back at her, trying to ignore my inner dialogue. At some point, 19 miles or so, I coached myself -- look at this, you've still got the 4:05 in the bag, enjoy it.

But I was whipped. At one of those odd miles, 19 or 21, it took an eighth of the mile or so before we got to the water table that was SUPPOSED TO BE at the mile marker, and I was near tears. That's how fixated you can get, how little tolerance you can have left.

At mile 22 you start climbing up the bridge over to Manteo. Mile 23 is the peak, then it's 3.2 miles to the finish. We came down off the bridge and I knew I was crawling. It's a long stretch, those last few miles. We were turning a corner towards the little town and mile 25 when I checked my watch. We had 8 minutes to cover 1.5 miles -- I can't do that even on a good day. So I started walking. Dee was perplexed -- Lisa, maybe we can do this! But it all became instantly clear: Who cares?! I wasn't going to make the 4:05 time, but I felt really good about the race. I had no interest in trudging in that last bit, still struggling to breathe.

Dee, who is quite an athlete, was perplexed at first, not knowing if I was heartbroken and if she should push me. She contemplated going ahead and getting her qualifying time, 4:15, then realized she was only going to run Boston if I did, because she's done it a dozen times or more and it makes teaching her college classes a little rough the next day. 

Strange as it may sound, walking in that last mile and change was my victory lap. I was celebrating so many things: My legs and hips for cooperating better than they had in weeks. The months of training--the 5 am, dark mornings heading out for hours of running. The gorgeous course and day -- gorgeous if you're not running. And spending the morning with a friend of 25 years and so many adventures. I just wanted to walk and savor it all. 

So it's done. I'll have to cook up some fun, new plan for celebrating my 50th. Coach Bob has been goofing with me, telling me the locks on the doors would be changed when I got home because I didn't come through. He asked me this morning how I felt. Good, I said, I don't feel like I ran a marathon. Well, he said, looking away, mumbling about how walking in the last mile means I didn't EXACTLY run a marathon.

I had a fun weekend with four women: Dee; Robin, a new and dear friend who came along and ran the half and drove us poor marathoners; and Lauren, a member of Dee's women's running club, who flew down to bag North Carolina on her quest to run a marathon in all 50 states. For the most part, runners are good people. We laughed with strangers about our strange post-marathon gait back to the hotel. We made countless stops on our four-hour drive to the beach, knowing how important our pre-race hydration and diet were, and how often you have to pee because of it. We celebrated on the drive back with chips and soda.

Fun. I didn't get a good time, but I had a very good time.

Think Brett Favre Has to Do This?

I'm all alone tonight and savoring it. Another hot bath, hot as I could stand it. All that time in the bathroom, though, forced me to scrub a bit and vacuum up one layer of dog hair afterwards, perhaps ruining the mood. 

Then a ceremonial dinner: grilled cheese and Gatorade with Van Morrison, who is serenading me along with Bruce on Pandora. 

It's nice, all this relaxing and attention to myself, my hydration, etc., but I kind of feel like I'm going off to war or something. I suppose I am—off to do battle with myself for four hours on Sunday morning.

Dinner will be topped off with the scrumptious cake my daughter had delivered from her former workplace, through her brother, with "Good Luck Mom" in gorgeous script across the top. I'm so proud.

And Me? Can I Do It?

Just checking in, with 3.5 days to go until race morning. I ran eight miles on Monday morning and three miles this morning with Stacy, and I'm not exactly feeling fresh. My hip flexors, both sides, feel increasingly like I'm running with the parking brake on. I'm just hoping that no runs between now and Sunday morning, popping some Alleve here and there, and stretching a bit will make things a bit better.

That, and thinking of all of you, including:

• My Blueliner fan club. You set fine examples, you keep running fun.

• Mason, my coworker's seven-year-old who has been fighting brain cancer cheerfully since it was diagnosed on Labor Day. Talk about strong.

• Kate, my college sophomore, who thinks it's cool I'm attempting this; Tommy, my high school senior, who thought I was flying to Boston this weekend for the marathon. (Just a slight difference between girls and boys.) I love those two kiddos.

• Robin, my "colleague" these last few months, who's kindly serving as personal driver and medical advisor while running the half marathon in-between.

• Sandy, Ellen, Ali, Erin -- you faithful blog readers who say such kind things.

• Chandler, my elderly dog, who will just be waiting anxiously for me to come home and doesn't care about marathon time one hoot.

• Bob. Coach Bob. Well, enough said, right?

• Dee, for being game to travel to NC for yet another adventure. Sally, for understanding and giving us both your blessings.

Joan Does It Again

In case you didn't hear, Joan Benoit Samuelson ran a 2:49:09 in the NYC Marathon this past Sunday. It's an event record for women over 50, by more than four minutes, and it's just one second off the American marathon record that she set last April during the Olympic Trials for women 50 and up.

Joan's been a hero of mine since 1979, when she won her first Boston Marathon in her characteristic fashion: low-key, no frills manner but decisive, take-no-prisoner wins.

These days I find her race times astonishing, making us all choke on our excuses of "my body's too old for this."

I was thrilled to meet Samuelson last spring when she came to town for the NC Marathon. As she headed out for a 10-mile training run (at a leisurely seven-minute pace), she acknowledged that it takes her a little while to warm up these days and work out the stiffness. So, she's human. Just fast.

Ode to Coach Bob

I was twenty-five and living in Boston. I had broken up with my college boyfriend and was trying to date casually. It didn't work. Instead, I developed a huge crush on the tall, dark-haired guy who worked in the office suite down the hall. 

I sent people to investigate and learned he was Bob, a grad student at Harvard who had coached lacrosse and soccer at Princeton. My crush daydreams grew to include fall afternoons hanging out at soccer games.

Somehow it all worked, and I did spend a few afternoons at games that first fall that we were dating. I also ran my second marathon that fall, half thinking it would impress him. But it turns out I never had to play games like that with Bob, I could just be myself. 

By the time we met, Bob wasn't coaching anymore. He became a college administrator, then professor. Well, he did coach many of our kids' teams: t-ball, Little League, rec basketball, rec lacrosse--even Kate's high school lacrosse team, where the girls loved calling him "Bob."

Still, over our 24 years together, I have benefitted from his coaching. Like all good teachers and coaches I've known (Dee, Joan, Thad, for starters), he has the ability to break tasks down into do-able steps. And he imparts confidence: Let me show you the skills because I know you can do this.

When my pals and I qualified for Boston at Cleveland in ’99, Bob sat waiting for us at mile 23. He proudly ran in with us, totally getting what the whole deal meant to me, a clueless jv athlete at best. 

A friend who's started online dating again asked me one of those interview-like questions she had to answer for the service: What makes a relationship work? There's the usual things -- communication, negotiation, respect. But probably one of the things I love most about Bob is he makes me laugh--always has, still does. And he never allows me to take myself seriously. That's more important than you know for anyone who tends to get boggled up in her mind, strategizing and analyzing things to death.

Coach Bob has been rooting for me and my qualifying quest these last few months. He's experiencing some of the same disconcerting effects of age when he runs -- slowing down, aching more -- so he understands that this time around is more of a push. 

He's the first person I'll want to call after I cross the finish line in Manteo next week, no matter what happens. It kills me that he'll be on an airplane, flying home from a conference, and I won't be able to either celebrate or commiserate with him.

Here's to you, Bob, for all the sweaty laundry you've had to wash, all the whining you've endured, the hours lost to naps and other long-run recuperation. You've always believed in me--like the best coaches do.

Straying from moderation

Today was one of those nicely balanced days. I thrive on balance--and sunshine. And I got plenty of both today. In the space of twelve hours, from 5:30 am to 5:30 pm, here's what I've accomplished:

Professional: Four hours of editing on two clients' book projects. Coffee with a designer, a neighborhood friend who may work with me on one of the books. An hour's meeting with one of the authors.

Domestic: Four rooms vacuumed, half the kitchen floor mopped (because of our elderly dog's continence issues). Quick run to grocery for basics.  Front yard and neighbor's front yard mowed (because I borrowed their mower). Leaves swept off the back deck. Checks deposited at bank.

Active: No run (love that tapering), but a happy walk in the woods with my little dog. She hunted and leaped and sprinted for an hour, I walked and admired the leaves and sunshine.

So, nothing to excess, the basics taken care of, all a nice flow.

Living a balanced life has its satisfactions, of course. But I've just realized it's one of the things that has made this marathon training such a challenge (sorry for prattling on about this over coffee, Michael, it's all just becoming clearer). When I try to do one thing well, when I push one activity beyond moderation, I am stepping out of my all-important comfort zone. Aiming to run a marathon at a faster than comfortable pace is exactly that -- a scary tipping of the balance.

Us everything-in-moderation folks typically lack the competitive gene that distinguishes every good athlete I've ever known. You know the ones, people who will pass someone in front of them in a road race just because they're there. People who can't imagine not playing hard until the last second, leaving it all on the field. I've never really left it all on the field because I'm too aware of my comfort level. I'll run or ride a bike for hours, happily, but that's usually because I'm yacking with pals or admiring the scenery, not studying my watch or odometer and aiming for a personal best. Such moderation has probably helped keep me injury free over the last 25 years, but it also limits the trophies and medals on my shelf.

Now that I've labeled it, I understand much better my angst over the last few months. My mind has been wrestling with itself and with my body. I've set a goal that would be exciting to meet, I'd feel quite proud qualifying for Boston. But my worn-out hamstrings and my comfort-zone loving heart may not be up to it. 

Life, meanwhile, has definitely lost some of its balance: the house is dirtier, my contribution to meals much shakier, my time with Bob more taken up with details of aches, pain and fatigue. These imbalances are temporary, of course. Pushing myself physically, to above-average running, would be longer lasting. 

We'll see. A mere 10 days. And speaking of moderation, I think it's time for a heart-healthy glass of red wine, to toast the day.

I'm not tapering, I'm peaking

At least, that's what I learned today. Over bagels and coffee after my 12-miler today, I whined to Thad. (Poor guy, he started a running blog and now all he gets from us Saturday morning Blueliners is our fitness questions.) 

Anyway--back to me. I felt exhausted today, barely able to bring in the 12 miles. I'd rather not think about what my pace was. So I asked Thad about tapering, wondering of course if it's safe for me to start cutting back my miles when I feel so, well, not strong. Is the fatigue from all the training, or from weakness?

Thad sent me to a couple great articles by running coach Joe English. Mind you, when English talks about training load, I know he's working with much more serious athletes. But the thinking is the same: to be in peak shape for an event, after months of training, you do need to cut back on volume these last few weeks, but not on intensity. So, shorten the runs, but keep 'em (get them?) fast.

I grabbed a sheet of paper and started scribbling down my recent mileage. Lo and behold, last week really was a jump up, to 41 miles. Plus ten of those miles were two five-milers where I pushed the pace (thanks for the inspiration, Dennis). That's a jump in weekly mileage of five to seven miles or so, plus some intensity. Thus, fatigue.

So now, with two weeks to go before Outer Banks, my job is to do all I can to stay strong and healthy. Vitamins, protein, drink water. Massage (thanks, Chevy). Yoga. Sleep. And keep the runs short and fast. 

By the way, I'm not getting older, I'm getting better. :)