Friday, September 29, 2006
Tainted
May strike you as harsh, but he makes some valid points.
Blurb:
Running was once a purist's sport—you needed only to lace up your shoes and hop out the door. No longer. During a recent run in Central Park, I dodged groups of marathon trainees festooned with heart-rate monitors and space-age breathable fabrics that looked like they'd emerged from some NASA lab. Along with this profusion of gear, a constellation of coaches, massage therapists, chiropractors, and other gurus now peddle services to the marathon masses. In New York, the Bliss Spa offers the "Cold Feet" treatment, a one-hour procedure that "uses alternating hot and cold therapies to help circulate and deflate aching, swollen feet and puffy ankles." Two groups that Bliss says deserves this kind of pampering: marathon runners and pregnant women.
In many ways, the slow marathon is the perfect event for the American athletic sensibility. Just finishing a marathon is akin to joining a gym and then putzing around on the stationary bike. We feel good about creating the appearance of accomplishment, yet aren't willing to sacrifice for true gains. It's clear now that anyone can finish a marathon. Maybe it's time we raise our standards to see who can run one.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
The real thing
So my memory isn't perfect--no sweatband, no horse--but I was kind of close, no? I knew there was red in there somewhere...
Hehe, she was pretty off-track at first.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Doriffic
Doris Brown Heritage was my cross country coach for the year that I ran at SPU. While the good times are countless, there's one vision that stands out: It was sometime in August when the team headed to the Oregon Coast for our annual summer retreat, a guaranteed weekful of challenging beach runs, teammate bonding, bottomless spaghetti, and all the homemade brownies we could stomach.
Doris's 57th birthday happened to fall on one of the days we were to be down there, so of course we had to stage a celebration. We stopped at an outlet mall along the way, picking up balloons, streamers, sillystring, and a pinata from Where's The Party. On the evening of Doris's big day, a few of us took her on a run while the others went to town w/ the decorations, stringing the patio of our beachside cabin w/ crepe paper and a cheesy banner. Upon her return, we blindfolded Doris and handed her a bat. We told her to take a good hard whack at the rainbow horse hanging before her, which she did. Over and over again. Now, however ripped she is (muscularly speaking), w/ not an ouce of fat on her form, Doris is not an imposing figure. On the contrary, she's about 5'2" and very small-boned. So if you can imagine one such woman, dressed in a tracksuit w/ a bright red sweatband stretched across her forehead, whacking away tirelessly at a dangling piece of cardboard in the manner of a wood splitter, you've got it. In due time, Doris had Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers flying in every direction. When I say I've never laughed so hard--tears, snot, doubled over, all that--I might actually mean it. Top ten, anyway.
But while this story sans context might sound reducing, even kind of demeaning, you have to know a little about the woman in order to appreciate its broader application.
Doris Heritage, a two-time Olympian and five-time world cross country champion, started what would become a lifelong running career, in saddle shoes. Growing up a girl in the 50s, she was of course denied the right to participate in school sports, so why outfit her in trainers? Thus, in footwear typically paired w/ frilly jumpsuits, she joined her Gig Harbor friends on bikerides--running along beside them. She was also known to speed repeatedly up and down her driveway. Whatever it took to get her fix.
Without such relentlessness, it's hard to imagine Doris would've made it as far as she did in an environment so wary of athletic women (they'll get arthritis!). But she's crazy, crazy in the absolute best possible way, which I believe permitted her to whack her way from dirt roads & 'no girls allowed' to Olympic stadiums & world bests. Following a total hip replacement in 2004, the woman's still swinging.
Below, a recent reference to Doris (page 2) in the current RW. Hardly close-mouthed when it comes to her Christian faith, she speaks often of the interrelatedness of her running practice and her spirituality, as she does here.
Monday, September 04, 2006
2006 Nike/NYC Half-Marathon
A woke up raceday morning nice and dirty. Ordinarily, I don't think twice about not showering before a race; why would I, when three hours later I'm sure to be bathed in good ole fashioned sweat? Still, I like to line up at the start feeling reasonably unspoiled, and as I'd been forced out of a shower the day before due to a timely pipe-clog in the unit below us, a clog which brought about a turning off our water, I was dirtier than usual--thus acutely in want of a rinse. Which I didn't get. Ah, so be it, I thought as I took stock of the various peripherals that would accompany me on my journey: the race bib, single Gu, key ring, and Metro & debit cards neatly lining the counter. Stuffing the latter few in the handy key pocket of my shorts, I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade to be chugged en route to the train, and stepped out onto the pre-dawn streets of an oddly peaceful neighbhorhood. Reaching Astor, I noted several other geared-up participants standing around waiting, and when I hopped on the train minutes later, it was apparent that three quarters of my car's occupants would alight at the same stop, at 86th & Lex.
Before I continue, another pre-race note: I was unusually nervous. Nervous in an excited way, but nervous nevertheless. It didn't make a lot of sense, considering my training hadn't exactly been top-notch (the heat! still, the heat!), thus you'd think my expectations would be low enough to head off the anxiety that tends to surface before an event that's been especially well-trained for--in other words, when there's something at stake. But no. From somewhere was arising an anxiety that reminded me of the days leading up to my first (very well-trained for) marathon, or the Portland Marathon, where my finish time was to dictate whether--or not--I'd run Boston the next year. I think my nervousness was definitely grounded in confidence, in the intuition, however illogical, that this race would go well. Anyway, I tried to channel my tense energy into something positive, attempting to apply a few of the visualization techniques I read about often in running magazines. While lying in bed, I went through the miles one by one, picturing myself running strong and effortless, w/ confidence... Granted, I only made it to mile four before I got distracted by a nice crack in the ceiling, but hey, it was the first time I'd tried, so perhaps it was a good start.
So I'd allowed myself about forty minutes to hang out at the start site--significantly more than I've been known to allow in the past. Unfortunately those forty minutes felt more like four, largely due to the sheer volume of runners scrambling around in pursuit the same things as I, a mob that made it hard to take two steps w/o pausing. First it was Operation Locate Safety Pins, an operation I almost aborted in favor of running w/ my bib clenched between my teeth. Thankfully, while waiting in the Porta Potty line, I managed to track down four abandoned ones. Finding the water table and getting some stretching in were also high on the list, but I never did find that water and the stretching had to be done while waiting in the aforementioned Porta Potty line. Not a huge deal, as I'd hydrated well in the days before and anticipated plenty of water stations along the way, but psychologically, I did want some. As for stretching, I rarely do it but in passing anyway (bad!), so I wasn't too concerned. What was concerning me was the Porta Potty Line From Hell (actually, they're all from one circle of hell or another), a line that, although people were visibly moving in and out of the potties, simply refused to advance me. From what I could tell, there wasn't any cutting going on, either. Total conundrum. I eventually got a clue and hightailed it to the far end of Potty Row where runners could be observed zipping from back to front at precarious speeds.
Seconds later I was pushing toward the starting line, where a series of corrals grouped cattle, er, runners according to projected finish time. I was aiming for the 1:45:00 corral, but the clock was ticking and I had to settle for a spot several paces, although not really so far, behind it. Pow: the gun was fired and we were off. It was a super-slow start, one that had those around me walking for a good few minutes before it finally made sense to break into a jog. Always at this point the runners start cheering, which is kind of a rush.
As w/ the vast majority of races in this day and age, chips were used, so the fact that it took several minutes to reach the actual starting line was irrelevant, as it would be 'chip time' (versus 'clock time') that would indicate true results. Still, once that line is crossed, every minute, fast and slow, counts towards the final outcome, thus it can be hard not to get a little cranky when crowds refuse to thin beyond the first couple of minutes.
Now, don't misread me: Everyone's allowed to dream. But when stopping to consider your projected finish time, please, be honest w/ yourself. If you trained at a 7:00 pace, by all means, line yourself up w/ the speedsters; if, on the other hand, your training runs saw closer to 11:00 miles, do not think that just because the big day is here, your shoes will sprout wings that will fly you to the finish line in 1:30:00 flat. It doesn't add up, you know? Anyway, reason for my gripe is that I came up on several such runners, and while one or two here and there is totally manageable, more than that just gets tricky. Weaving in and out, passing left and right, the odds of accidentally falling a fellow runner increase substantially. But I inched ahead w/o incident, and when the first mile marker appeared just ahead of a digital clock, I squelched the urge to cry (00:13:00). Estimating a three-minute lag between clock and chip times, I figured I had around two minutes to make up if I was to reach my goal time of 1:45:00ish. Spread out over twelve miles, felt maybe doable.
The first seven and a half miles unfolded in Central Park, around its perimeter, basically. It was a route I was familiar w/, having done another NYRR half marathon early in the year, a race that had us circling the park (almost) twice. Tree-filled and scenic, of course, and fairly comfortable, although w/ a few respectable hills. For some reason the downs stood out more than the ups, which isn't normal for me, but hey, I'd take it. Also atypical was the consistent level of difficulty (medium) I felt over the course of the first half of the race. Following the early & easy adrenaline-fueled miles, three through six are generally kind of trying, but all through the park I felt alright. Pace-wise I also felt consistent, and I could tell I was pushing myself. Nothing all-out or anything, but I was challenging myself. Let's see... Through maybe a third of this portion of the race I paced behind two women who looked to be about my age--and very, very fit. They were chatting easily about this and that, mostly work-related concerns, making it obvious that they were hardly taking the event seriously. Also, they were sporting matching 'USA' singlets, so I'm pretty sure they train competitively. Anyway, I left them in my wake at a water station around mile six, thinking I'd take advantage of how good I felt and speed up a little--then, when they inevitably passed me, I'd fall into step behind them once again. I don't know, that was last I saw of them. (I'm sure, had I looked around some, I would've found them refreshed and breathing easy at the finish line, as if they'd just put a trip to the spa, not a half marathon, behind them.)
Once out of the park, it was Times Square and thereabouts for 15 blocks. Nike being the sponsor, all stops were pulled out: Broadway was entirely closed to traffic for the duration of the race. It was both eerie and invigorating to see this area completely w/o cars, all lit up and filled w/ the sounds of jazz ensembles set up every two blocks for our entertainment. It was also at this point that the rain refused to hold back a minute longer. (Up until now, fine conditions: 65 and gray.) Just short of hailing, it dumped in sheets, drenching all in a matter of seconds. There was an air of giddiness, actually, and generally this far into a race, as long as it's not a super-long one, runners won't lose it over a little rain. Looking around me, people appeared to keep at pace, and myself, outside my saturated socks/shoes, I wasn't too bugged.
At 42nd Street, we turned right and headed toward the West Side Highway, where we would remain till the end. Well, almost, considering we finished in Battery Park. The stretch between just outside the park and the debut of the highway felt really, really long; I kept swinging my gaze to the right side of the road, in constant search of that elusive nine-mile marker. I even begged someone to, please, tell me it's already passed. Not yet. It finally appeared, accompanied by the same digital clock that I'd seen eight times before. (This is very unusual. Oftentimes a clock will show at, like, mile one and then again at the halfway point in a given race. Until this race I don't think I'd ever seen each and every mile clocked.) The time displayed held promise, and I figured if I could just hold steady, I'd at least make w/in two minutes of my loose goal time.
Taking survey, people were tired, people were wet, people were ready to be done. You rarely hear bantering this late in the game, and indeed, it was pretty quiet. While I hadn't relied too heavily on mantras in the miles leading up to now, my mind starting drifting, grabbing on to phrases and sayings--some off-topic, others more conscious and meant to inspire. I fell back on the old 'I know I can, I know I can, I know I can...' on several occasions, and another random combination popped up at some point, which was 'embrace it.' Embrace what? The labored breathing? The soaked and weight-bearing tank top? The squish in my shoes? Aw, all of it. I knew I was on the homestretch, and I reminded myself of a thought I often have off-running: 'You may be uncomfortable, even intensely uncomfortable, but you know--you know--you have more, you know this isn't it.' Of course, this makes more sense while stationary, but that it was occurring to me at all felt pretty cool. I don't know, I may have picked up the pace a little (I think it's time to cave: to buy a real true running watch), but it's always so hard to tell towards the end. Oh, I also had a song or two bouncing around my brain over the last few miles. One--losing in front of your hometown... you wish the ground would open up and take you down--sure had an encouraging message. I'm sure there was also a golden oldie somewhere in the mix, as this seems to be par for the course. Always an oldie.
Up came '13' and, geez, so close! I kicked it up a few notches, observing the way my legs were wobbly from the inside (the weirdest feeling) and passing a runner or two, and that was it. My clock time: 1:51:01. I wasn't quite sure what to make of this, as again, I was only guessing on the time between start and 'real start.' Later that evening, the site provided clarification: 1:47:15, working out to an 8:11 mile pace. Slower than I'd been pushing for, but I was really happy regardless, because I knew I'd faced up to my own challenge, and held steady for the entire race. (Mushy mushy, yeah.) Sometimes the mind turns so crazy mid-race (what? why? you?), and the non-running related insecurities that rise to the surface can be surprising and disorienting. On the occasion that you're able to beat through all this, the cheesy medal you're handed as you emerge from the chute seems worth keeping around.