I try not to use my blog as a place to rant about the stupid petty things or policies that bother me before, during and after my races. Instead, I try to focus on how I train and how I race and the things I have control over. But recently, a couple things really got under my skin, and I just feel like getting them out. And people reading: feel free to disagree with me on these matters because I actually do see both sides of the story, even when I'm angry.
The first of the two things was the prize money (or my lack thereof) at the Detroit Marathon. The cash awards were determined based on "clock time," not chip time. This normally wouldn't upset me if everyone in the race started at the same time. But in Detroit, that wasn't the case.
Upon registration, I filled out a form that requested my fastest marathon time in the last two years and my predicted finish time. I typed 3:09 and 3:10, respectively. I was being conservative: if I had a bad race, it would be 3:15 and if I had a great race, it might be closer to 3:00. Upon picking up my bib number, I noticed my start was in the second wave -- it was my fault for assuming wave meant "corral." I had never run a marathon with a wave start until Detroit. Like in triathlons, wave start means: "groups will start two minutes apart."
Ok, that's cool. They have their reasons. (And they're good reasons. The wave start is expected to alleviate congestion on the Detroit-Windsor Bridge.) And besides, they have electronic timing, right? You know, the thing that registers when you cross the starting line and when you cross the finish line. That thing that tells them exactly how long it took you to complete 26.2 miles.
What they don't tell you at registration, unless you read the awards page, is that cash awards (top three, top three masters, etc.) are based on "clock time" not "chip time." So, in effect, the wave start gives first wave runners a two minute head start on us "second wave"-ers. Had I known this before the race, I might have asked race officials to put me in the first wave (if it were even possible for them to make that change).
At least two runners were adversely affected by the wave start: the woman who finished the course in the third-fastest time and the woman who finished the course in the third fastest masters time (me) lost out on prize money because we started in the second wave -- those two minutes actually gave us fourth place "clock times" in our respective categories. Why even have electronic timing? Or better, how hard is it to subtract the wave start times? Oh well. I could have put that $200 to good use. But it doesn't change the fact that I had a good race.
Detroit Marathon awards rant over.
My new wetsuit, direct from Quintana Roo
The second rant also has to do with an award. You may remember my race report from the FIRMMan half-ironman in Narragansett, Rhode Island. The FIRMMan awards include a big table of grab-bag prizes donated by sponsors. As one of the overall winners, I had an early choice and went for one of the more expensive prizes -- a Quintana Roo wetsuit. While making my choice, I noticed the wetsuit gift certificate required that I pick up my "prize" at V3 Multisport in Arlington, Massachusetts. Residing in Cleveland, this would be next-to-impossible, so I put the award back down on the table, only to be told by one of the race directors that she would have them mail it to me (it was a thoughtful favor, since I was the overall women's winner).
She was not in a position to grant that favor, unfortunately. And although I did not witness the interchange that took place, I know that when she asked V3 Multisport to take care of it, they refused. After about three weeks of very little communication, I received an email from a Quintana Roo representative explaining what had happened. Then, she made me a very generous offer from Quintana Roo: because they were out of stock of the prescribed wetsuit (their low end model), they would upgrade me to the next model for 75% of the difference that it sold in retail. In effect, she offered me a $400 wetsuit for $130. This was a no brainer and thanks to Quintana Roo, I now have an awesome new wetsuit.
A week later, I got an email from V3 Multisport with the following text:
"Jeanne, I would like to accommodate your request to mail you the wetsuit that you won. Unfortunately, it is not our policy to send out the prizes. Each winner must come to our store to claim their prize. I understand that you live in Ohio but it still does not change our policy. Rules apply to everyone the same across the board. If I make an exception for you, shouldn't everyone else be afforded the same? The idea is to get people into the store to claim their prize and hopefully spend some additional money. What I can do is if you want to upgrade your wetsuit and apply our cost of the suit you won to the cost of the upgraded suit, I can do that. Let me know."
Now, as a "marketing" person, I totally understand this. I "get" the idea of having people come into the store and spend spend spend. And, I would have, as they have cool stuff -- I had already bought merchandise from them at the race expo. The point was that I would have chosen something completely different off that prize table had the offer not been made. AND, I'm not the one who asked for the favor, so why make me feel bad with your condescending email? AND why, then, offer to upgrade me? (in effect, saying you WILL change the rules if I spend more money)
What happened is this: I will now never shop at V3 Multisport and will say negative things about them any chance I get. And, had they made this generous offer in the first place, they wouldn't have lost the deal to Quintana Roo. I'll laugh about it every time I wear my new wetsuit.
Yesterday, October 17, I finished my second marathon of 2010. The first one was in Pittsburgh in May, a warm-up for Ironman Lake Placid, and it would not be an all-out race. This one was in Detroit, an alternative plan for not making it to Ironman Hawaii, and it WOULD be a race. They were both supposed to be "fun." But Pittsburgh didn't hurt. Detroit would.
I entered the Detroit Marathon because Columbus, my choice race, was sold out. A friend convinced me it was the equal of Columbus without the stress (in his words, it wasn't a local race "where the streets know my name"). He was absolutely right -- the Detroit Marathon is a mostly flat and fast course. And the weather was near perfect -- in the low 60s by the finish.
The other reason I decided to run the Detroit Marathon was a reunion with my former student and good friend Jess (her blog). After being sidelined by injury and taking time off to have her first child, Jess was finally ready to tackle her goal of running a marathon this year. Knowing how badly she wanted to run a marathon and how excited she was to be healthy and at the starting line, I would enjoy seeing her finish as much as having a good race myself.
In the two weeks leading up to the marathon, I tapered my running mileage while keeping my swimming and biking volume up. Although I wanted to have a good marathon, my goal race of the season was still Ironman 70.3 Clearwater in November. It may not have been the best way to approach it, but I had already worked too hard to sacrifice my ultimate goal. Throughout last week, I never felt fully rested and my running legs continued to feel fatigued even with low easy mileage. I constantly complained to my husband Jim about "how crappy I felt." His answer? He wished he had recorded it every time in the past that I complained during my taper. That way he could play it back to remind me that I sounded like "a broken record." So I tried not to worry. Even when my legs felt wasted on my jog the day before.
Cold and dark, I dreaded taking off my sweats
Sunday, race day, began in the upper 40s. We met Jess and her husband Chris (who was running the half-marathon) at 5:30 a.m. in the hotel lobby to take Detroit's People Mover to the starting line. I was bundled in sweats, a beanie, a long sleeve shirt and a t-shirt over my race shorts and top and was still cold. But somehow they got by with only short sleeves and shorts. We hung out on the street as a record-crowd showed up -- over 19,000 runners in four events: the marathon, marathon relay, half-marathon, and 5K.
Runners at the start were divided into corrals which would be started as waves -- waves would be separated by two-minute intervals. Based on my predicted finish (an optimistic 3:10), I was designated to start in the second wave. I had never seen waves in a running race. The wave start was expected to alleviate congestion on the Detroit-Windsor bridge.
This brings me to my next point. The Detroit Marathon is mostly in Detroit, Michigan, but features a few miles in Windsor, Canada. At registration, all runners are required to provide their passports or international ID's, and runners and bib numbers are scrutinized as they cross the border(s). And on the way back into the U.S., every runner does an "underwater mile" -- complete with certificate and mile split -- through the Detroit-Windsor tunnel. How cool is that?
The race began at 7 a.m., just before the crack of dawn. Before I started, I made one race vow to Jim: I would not do anything to jeopardize my race in Clearwater, even if it meant dropping out. This is NOT the best attitude with which to approach a marathon. Within the first mile, I was already feeling heaviness in my legs. As I approached the 5K marker near the apex of the bridge to Canada (and the only real hill on the course), I was very concerned that I would have to end my race when I got back into the U.S.
By mile 6, I had settled into an uncomfortable seven-minute mile pace as a new problem arose. I needed a porta-john. And I needed one soon. This could not be taken care of, as they say, "on the run." The first opportunity was a line of porta-johns at the first relay exchange. I passed it up because of the wait lines, remembering there were porta-johns at every water stop. And... there was a water stop just ahead. Did I say "just ahead"? I meant "right now"! The water stop and the relay exchange were one and the same, and yes, you guessed it, those WERE the only toilets. As I continued on, I prayed that I wouldn't have to ask someone in Canada where their nearest toilet was.
As we headed into the tunnel at mile 7, conditions changed from the 40s and cold (outside) to near-stifling (underwater). The short climb out was a great relief, as was mile marker 8 and the expectation of another "bathroom break" opportunity. At the water stop, I grabbed a cup of water and carried it until I saw the great plastic answer to my prayers. I was at such a point of desperation, I didn't know if I'd even get the door open in time. And at that particular moment in time, I can say, without a doubt, that I didn't care how much time I lost. However, upon regaining my composure, I did manage to maximize my "down time" by multitasking -- consuming a Gu Roctane and the aforementioned cup of water.
I estimated I lost about two minutes for the stop, but once I was back on my feet, I felt much better. And lighter. I knew from experience that trying to make up the time I lost was a bad idea, so I settled back into my "uncomfortable" seven-minute-mile pace. Feeling so fatigued so early, I didn't think I could hold that pace for the entire marathon. In fact, it was around mile 10 that I started to have thoughts of dropping out. My mind started asking those tough questions: "Can I live with myself if I don't finish?" and "Is it better to DNF than to embarrass myself with a really slow time?" Yes, my legs were tired. But not once did I consider dropping out because I would hurt myself and/or ruin my race in Clearwater.
And, in a nutshell, that was it. I made one vow. I would only drop out to save my race in Clearwater. A slow marathon would NOT sacrifice my race in Clearwater, it would only hurt my mental state. Time to suck it up. I began the wrestling match with my demons.
I look like I'm going faster than I am
I went through the half at 1:35. To finish in my predicted (read: acceptable) time, I would have to negative split this marathon, something I've only ever done once (without a bathroom break). At mile 13, I consumed another Gu, and, to my surprise, by mile 16 I felt like I was gaining stamina even though I still seemed to be running on the edge of anaerobic. I knew that around mile 19 or 20, the race headed out to Belle Isle and would almost certainly lose crowd support until we were back on the mainland at mile 23. The demons fought back. I wrestled them down.
And at mile 17, along came my race savior, an angel by the name of Laura. For two miles, I chased her down, only to find that she wasn't IN the race at all. She was one of a group of high school runners who were running seven miles of the marathon course as a workout. Her coach told her not to take any aid or hinder runners. And Laura did quite the opposite. She ran my pace and she made me laugh. She told me she "loved to run" and wanted to be an ultra-marathoner someday. I don't know who was pushing who, but by the time we hit mile 23 and her workout ended, I was mentally energized and ready to tear up my final 5K. The only thing threatening to stop me was the onset of a sharp pain in my left hip at mile 20 that was steadily increasing in intensity.
The last thing Laura said to me was "Do it for me, Jeanne!" and I took off. I don't know how many people I chased down in that final 5K, but I do remember the ones who had passed me earlier in the race. My pace was slowing, but to my surprise, I managed to get through mile 24 in seven minutes.
From Belle Isle back to downtown, the Detroit Marathon is one of the prettiest urban courses I've run. It travels along the waterfront on something called the "Detroit Riverwalk" (I think) while heading to the finish line. And you can tell how close you are by spotting the towers of the Renaissance Center just up ahead. For me, the last mile and a half was agony as my hip decayed further. I just tried to maintain my stride and hoped it wouldn't give out. The only thing worth fighting for was to close the gap on two women in front of me, but I ran out of road. When I saw the finish chute, I finally looked at the total time on my watch. I would, indeed, finish in under 3:10 - in 3:06 - 87th overall, ninth woman, third master and first in my age group (45-49). And I wrestled the demons into submission -- for now.
But Detroit wasn't a disaster-free race. I met Jim shortly after the race and we found Chris after he finished the half-marathon. While we were deciding what to do next, Chris got a phone call. It was Jess. She developed a severe I-T band problem and had to drop out at mile 16, unable to take another step. My heart sank. I knew what she was going through. I know what she will GO through in getting to the next marathon start line. But Jess has one thing going for her. She's a bona fide angel. I knew it the moment I met her -- she was an angel in my devil's classroom. And, therefore, she has the one thing she needs -- the ability to fight those demons. All the way to the finish line.
Here's a 17-second video of my start if anyone is interested:
It doesn't matter how many years separate me from my high school track-running roots, when I step foot on one of those quarter-mile ovals, I become the complete antithesis of an endurance athlete. It's like a wild animal, a kind of repressed urge for speed that I shove down into the depths of my soul and keep leashed up. Oh, it gets unleashed every now and then, like when I desperately want to chase down the leaders in an Olympic-distance triathlon. But for the most part, the speed demon stays locked up so I can embrace my marathon training and racing distances.
But yesterday, there was no controlled unleashing. Yesterday, it FOUND the key: the 400-meter track oval. I have always avoided track workouts for this very reason -- because I have absolutely NO control of the demon. My quarter-miler mentality turns every inch of a track into an all-out sprint.
What was I doing on a track, you ask? I was completing the Cleveland Metroparks' (my employer's) "Physical Fitness Standards Test" to get reimbursed for the cost of my health club membership. You may have heard of this -- organizations give their employees incentives to get healthier by paying for their gyms if they complete some kind of fitness assessment. The first time I heard about such a thing was at Ironman Mooseman 70.3 when a finisher was trying to retrieve concrete evidence of his time to take back to his employer to get reimbursed. I remember listening to his plea and saying to my husband Jim: "I wish Cleveland Metroparks did that!"
Be careful what you wish for. This year, Cleveland Metroparks Human Resources department has created a voluntary program for employees to meet physical fitness standards, the same standards required for the park rangers. The standards consist of sit-ups, push-ups and a 1.5-mile run, and requirements are age and gender based. Each standard yields a $100 health club reimbursement (up to $300 total for all three). And they're making it easier this year - participants only have to meet the requirements for the next-older age-group.
It's a no-brainer for someone like me, right? The phone calls and questions started: "are you doing the fitness test?" and "how fast do you think you can run a mile-and-a-half in?" Then came the first batch of results: "I ran mine in 9:30," and "I was running pretty fast and then this other guy went blowing by me and finished in 8:20." No one seemed to care about the sit-ups and push-ups. It was the run that mattered.
I wasn't worried about the run. I was worried about the push-ups. I never do push-ups or bench presses or anything resembling that motion (for the record, swimming doesn't resemble that motion).
I showed up for my fitness evaluation yesterday morning at Ranger Headquarters. This fitness test was an official gig. They made us sign forms. They lined us up. They looked at us sternly and showed us what was expected. No one smiled. I felt like I was about to enter boot camp.
Sit-ups were first and were no problem. I did 49 in a minute (the requirement was 17). Then came push-ups. For my age group, the requirement was 11 push-ups in a minute. But I only had to pass for the next-older age group, which was 13 modified (note: "girly") push-ups. I had to make a decision -- go for the sure thing and be a pansy or just go for it? The rangers egged me on: "GO FOR IT, JEANNE!" ... well maybe YOU can say no to that, but I'm a sucker. They even egged me on AFTER I reached 11, and to my utter surprise, I managed to get off 20 push-ups in about 35 seconds before collapsing. The other guy in the room did about 50. Today, my upper body is paying for my overzealousness.
Then came the run. We congregated in the hall beforehand. And that's when it happened. You KNEW it would. Someone HAD to go and make the statement: "the fastest time so far in the 1.5-mile run is 8:47 (note: not 8:20)." The animal stirred.
I got in my car and called Jim before I drove up to the track. "The fastest time is 8:47! Do you think I can beat that? what mile pace do I have to do?" I always ask Jim the math questions because my brain can't do calculations under pressure. We decided a 5:50 pace would do it. If it were 10 years ago, or I had been adequately "tapered," I would have said that was no problem. But at age 45 and many years of long slow Ironman training including running eight miles the day before... let's just say it was "not likely."
But something else happened to fire up the animal. When we got to the track, several of my female work cohorts asked me the question: "do you think you can beat that?" and followed it with "wouldn't it be great if a woman had the fastest time?" All of a sudden, I was part of a team again. I would give it my best shot. For us.
There were timers at each half lap (I told you it was "official-like"). We lined up... and we were off. Two guys took the first corner like bats out of hell. I could no longer hold back the animal. It was out of its cage and it chased them down. When I went through the first lap in 1:27, I felt like I had already blown this "race." My lungs were on fire and I was not sure I could hold the pace. It seemed slow, but I was obviously in no shape to be running this fast. I counted down..."can I do five (four, three) more laps at this pace?" At mile one, the timer shouted "5:53!" -- not fast enough. The "race" was over. I was maxed out, about to lose bladder control, and there was no way I would finish any faster than I had already gone. Until I got to the backstretch and thought: "hey, I only have a lap and a half to go.." The animal got angry. It went into "do or die" mode. I've been there before -- in October 2002, I spent 26.2 miles in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii in "do or die" mode.
With one half-lap to go, I heard the news: "8:05." To get that record, I had to run a 200 meters in about 40 seconds. Was that even possible? The animal saw the finish line.
I don't know exactly how I did it, and I still wonder if the timer pulled a George Hooper (George Hooper was my college swim coach we used to call the "wish timer" because he always hit the stop button before you hit the wall), but the results were in: "8:46." I don't even know the guy who previously held it, but I managed to get his "record" by one second. And I won't downplay how much it hurt or the role my fellow women played in making me want it. This was for "us."
Which marathon should I run on October 17, Detroit or Toronto?
Was the Columbus Marathon rejection a message from God that I should not run a marathon this fall?
The answers to these questions were more questions:
Which marathon is better, Detroit or Toronto?
Why would God have any power over my OCD running behavior?
I had to come up with answers:
Detroit was better for four reasons: it's closer than Toronto, one of my good friends is running her first marathon there, a well-respected running friend (Tim Budic) convinced me it was just as good as Columbus without the stress, and the kicker: it's got an "underwater mile" (surely, that's reason in and of itself to do it).
I am the Disaster Magnet and I'm running a marathon whether God wants me to or not.
Now comes the biggest question: with a marathon less than two weeks away and my goal race, the Ironman 70.3 World Championship in Clearwater, less than six weeks away, how should I taper? Will the taper screw up my half-ironman plans? I gave it some long hard thought.
I looked in my past for evidence of good race performances without much recovery between races. In 2008, I raced two half-ironman triathlons separated by eight days. The second one was not only harder, but I did it faster. And, not just faster, but five minutes faster on the run. In 2000, I ran two marathons five weeks apart. The second one was faster. Only a minute faster, but they were the third (2:50) and second (2:49) fastest marathons of my life.
Knowing that I only have to run 13.1 miles in the half-ironman, I've convinced myself that doing a hard marathon four weeks before will not sacrifice that, my most important race of the year. In fact, I hope that all the marathon training will do just the opposite and give me the boost I need to tear up the run course in Clearwater.
Because of my late decision to race, my taper won't be a full three-week affair that I usually afford my marathons. But then again, my running mileage is hardly where it was when I was just a marathoner. I guess it's an experiment, really. I've been running hard and long mileage but in only three or four sessions per week. Therefore, if I think about it, my "running" recovery is done in the water and on the bike, even though I put in up to ten hours weekly in those sports, including hard training.
Thus, my marathon taper will only be this week and next week and will mostly involve dropping my running mileage, but not intensity. I plan to continue to swim hard throughout the taper and probably drop my bike mileage around the middle of next week just to rest my legs. Three or four days of good rest will probably be all I can mentally handle anyway. I suspect I'll be bouncing off the walls by the end of next week.
Then I'll work on race strategy and pacing next week with all that extra time and energy. But I may still have to cut down on my daily Starbucks.
Yep, I'm in there, the only person looking at the camera
For ten years, all I did was run. And all I wanted to do was run marathons. I ran myself into five stress fractures because I didn't know when to STOP running. But when I realized that no matter how much I ran, I wasn't going to get any faster, I reached a turning point. I needed a new challenge and I became a triathlete.
But the truth is, I never stopped being a "runner." I still act like a runner. When I'm at my wits end about work and life stresses, I go running. Not biking. Not swimming. I've needed to run ever since my high school track coach, John Klarman, taught me that it clears my mind better than any drug out there. And today, I'm in need of a good mind clearing -- to erase the disappointments of this year -- the stupid mistakes, the missed opportunities, the betrayals, the ridiculous bad luck, and most of all, the almost-perfect-race-turned-utter-failure in Lake Placid. It hurts especially bad today as I read about others' preparations for Ironman Hawaii only a week away.
So I've decided to focus on a marathon. Yes, I still have Ironman 70.3 Clearwater in November, but I need a marathon. It keeps me sane. In fact, the most fun I've had in a race this year was in the Pittsburgh Marathon in May. And it had nothing to do with the post-race meal at Piper's Pub.
I didn't originally want to run a big scary marathon. I had settled on running the low-key, small-town Towpath Marathon in Peninsula, Ohio (where?). Heck, it's right down the road. I could sleep in my own bed. And it's one of my regular training routes -- the crushed-limestone surface of the Erie Canal tow-path. There would be no expectations. It would just be a "run." Then, through a friend's suggestion, I considered the Columbus Marathon. Columbus would definitely be a "race." It's a flat, paved course. It would require an overnight stay. In a big city. I would know a LOT of people in it. And there would be.. um.. spectators! Watching! And I would probably know a LOT of them. Talk about stress.
But I'll never be ready for Clearwater if I don't reach outside my comfort zone. And my comfort zone since Lake Placid has been to avoid further disappointment by not taking any race completely seriously. Despite this attitude, I've had several race wins, but I can't go to the Ironman 70.3 World Championship without mental engagement. I need to remember how to go into a big race with a competitive attitude AND have fun.
And like clockwork, once I had made up my mind, disaster struck. I started the registration process, filled out the entire Active.com form and what happens? Upon hitting the submit button, the page came back with the following message: "registration limit reached" and that was that. I went back to the registration page and indeed, it said "Marathon FULL." My exact thoughts were: you MUST be kidding! How could I miss getting in by a matter of minutes?!?!? This could ONLY happen to me. I wrote to the race director. The race was, indeed, sold out. He was sorry.
I can't say I wasn't angry. Angry at myself for waiting. Angry at my bad luck. Angry at the Columbus Marathon for capping race entries (when did Columbus get so popular anyway?) Today I started looking for a different race. Because, now that my brain is switched over to race mentality, I can't go back to "just run the Towpath Marathon" mentality. From what I can tell, my best choices are Detroit Free Press and Toronto. One is close. One is far. But both are driveable. Maybe I'll flip a coin. Heck, my luck has to turn sooner or later, right?
Getting to be a better cyclist seems to evade me. For some reason, and it might just be me, cycling speed doesn't follow the same rule as swimming and running. And it's such a simple rule: work hard, get faster.
Except, on the bike, I work hard but I don't get faster. I've been working hard all year. I ride hills. I ride tempo and speed intervals on my trainer. I strap on a heart rate monitor and it "says" I'm riding hard (as if I can't already tell from the screaming burn in my quads). I even feel stronger -- like, I can ride hills in a higher gear. And yet, "faster" doesn't happen. Is it me? My methods? Something mechanical? Technical? Why would it work in all other endurance training but not on the bike? Then I wonder, is it something mental?!?! But how could it be?
At this point, I'm nearing a state of desperation. The thing I fear most is having a fast swim split in November in the Clearwater 70.3 only to get on the bike and feel that familiar ache in my legs at the start of the bike leg and realize I can't ride faster than 21 mph all out on the flattest road imaginable. (Have you seen the roads in Clearwater?)
I do have a plan for training, but I'm not holding out much hope (maybe it IS mental). For the next seven weeks, I will assume I have a good enough base to concentrate on short speed intervals twice a week on the trainer while getting at least one long ride per week outside.
Then, if that doesn't work, I'll have the whole winter to figure out why. Or consider an alternate approach. One so-called alternate approach involves teaching myself discipline to be on the bike for seven or eight hours at a time. Because if I can't figure out the speed issue the easy way, I might as well do it the "hard way" by applying what accidentally worked in the early days of my running career.
It's what happened when I started running marathons. I used to race a one-mile relay leg at work every spring and fall. One spring, my all-out mile time was 6:05. I desperately wanted to break six minutes, so I did many weeks of track work targeting a six-minute mile pace. That fall, my all out-mile was 6:00. Frustrated I gave up that dream and started training for a spring marathon, my first. That spring.. you guessed it, my mile time? 5:33.
Long slow distance equals faster mile times? Not bad. Perhaps the same thing will work on the bike. But it's a heck of a price to pay in terms of training -- the time commitment is mind-boggling. Thus, I beg you, O gods of cycling, please shine a light on my humble bike intervals. Let the law of hard work pay off in Clearwater so I don't end up losing my mind over the winter.
Oh, and while you're at it, help me do all those other things right this time. You know, nutrition, pacing, sleep, etc. Because it doesn't matter how hard I work if I'm just going to go out there and act like a disaster magnet.
The two things I love most in the world -- besides my husband and my cat -- are music and run/tri training. If I find something out there that combines those two things, what could possibly be better? Not much.
So when I found that something, it seems to be the ultimate irony that its primary product is something I really DON'T get excited about: clothing (no, seriously). Basically, for me to get excited about clothing, it has to be way cooler or way more functional than anything I already have. And that goes doubly if it's a t-shirt. Because I have more t-shirts than you can shake a stick at. And I have given away more t-shirts than you can shake a stick at (where does that expression come from anyway?). I have boxes of t-shirts that have never been worn. And here's the deal: I don't WANT any more.
Until I saw my new t-shirt. To understand why I had to have it, I have to tell you about my first obsession. This is the obsession that came before all the other ones. The one that came before my college obsession with being a fast swimmer. The one that preceded my marathon running OCD of the 1990s. And yes, this is the one before Turin Brakes (the band I yearly fly across the Atlantic to see and my current musical obsession).
The obsession was with a band called Cheap Trick. I was 13 and in my proverbial teeny-bopper years. Or year. Cheap Trick was the second-ever "rock concert" I attended. Although I can't remember, I'm sure I begged my mother (on my knees and hysterically crying) to let me go. Somehow, I won that battle, and it turned out to be the "greatest thing that ever happened to me!!" Seriously. During the concert, the singer, Robin Zander, tossed a Kiss album cover out into the audience, and who caught it? ME! that's right. I was the one who waved it around, the envy of every teen girl in the audience (which was pretty much everyone IN the audience). Yep, that was me. The smug one. If I could go back in time, I would clobber me for that behavior. That year - that ONE year - I would acquire four - that's FOUR (4) - Cheap Trick t-shirts. And I bragged about the fact that I actually HAD four Cheap Trick t-shirts. One for almost every day of the high school week. One of them had the band logo done in glitter. Yes, I said GLITTER. I don't know where those t-shirts are now, but I wish I still had them. They would be "totally retro."
Thank heavens for the internet. Because I found something even better. One day while surfing the blogosphere, I found what is perhaps the funniest athlete blog I've ever read. (Stay with me here.) The blog is "Punk Rock Tri Guy" and it's written by Ron. Ron does marathons, ironmans, you name it -- if it's an endurance event, he'll eventually do it -- and blog about it. And he's a brilliant writer who makes everything sound fun and funny. I routinely laugh (yes, out loud) at his articles (remember the way you USED to laugh at early Seinfeld episodes?).
But before I read a single word of Punk Rock Tri Guy's blog, I was hooked instantly by the t-shirt he was wearing in a photo. It was my Cheap Trick t-shirt! Except, no, wait! It was the iconic Cheap Trick logo with the band name replaced by the word "Runner." In another photo, he was wearing the t-shirt of another past favorite band of mine, the Ramones. I think the first or second comment I ever wrote on his blog was something about having the "same Ramones shirt" he had. Except... again, it WASN'T a Ramones t-shirt!! it was the Ramones logo with the "Johnny Joey Dee Dee" replaced with "Swim Bike Run" -- a triathlon shirt masquerading as the coolest punk band of all time.
That's when I saw it: Ron was the founder of a clothing company called "Punk Rock Racing" (duh, that's why he's "Punk Rock Tri Guy"), and they have even more cool t-shirts, not to mention other stuff. I may be only one person, but I will bring the "athletes disguised as punk rockers" revolution to Cleveland, the "birthplace of rock and roll." And, then I'll take on a new cause. Like, if the Ramones can make it into the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame, why not Cheap Trick?
What is a "personal trainer" anyway? Most of the people I know who have personal trainers describe them the way I would describe my high school sports coaches (back when coaches were bad-asses and we dreaded their wrath). A trainer's job should be more than just to whip the asses of people who lack motivation. Hell, many people can get that at their daily jobs. Why pay for it?
I don't know about you, but I can kick my own ass worse than any trainer can. Most of MY coaches spent their time trying to get me to back off and avoid injuring myself. When I say I don't need motivation, I know what I'm talking about. And when I tell a trainer what I need as an athlete, I also know what I'm talking about. If I hired a personal trainer, I would want him/her to understand my goals as an athlete and help me put together a plan to accomplish them.
My new gym membership came with a "free" session with a personal trainer. What they don't tell you is that "free" really means "you have no choice and we won't give you the option of turning it down." Ok, no problem, it's free, right? And I don't have to pay for it, right? Ok. I made the appointment. My trainer asked me what my goals were. I told him: "strength training for triathlon and endurance events - and I don't want to add muscle bulk." My trainer replied: "I'll do some research on that before we meet." And YES, I DID believe him - I always start by giving people the benefit of the doubt.
My training session began with a questionnaire that my trainer filled out while asking me the questions. The first question (again): "What do you want to get out of personal training?" I replied (again): "strength training for triathlon and endurance events - and I don't want to add muscle bulk."
The second question (and I am NOT making this up): "Can you be more specific?" Umm, how much more specific CAN I BE?!?! My trainer looked at me expecting me to (actually) narrow down my answer. I said (for the third time): "strength training for triathlon and endurance events - and I don't want to add muscle bulk." He looked down and started writing.
I mentally checked out. I don't know what he wrote. I don't care what he wrote. I came to a quick conclusion: personal training with this person will do nothing for me. The rest of my session involved exercises with balls, chairs, weights and one machine. My trainer rarely made eye contact with me (people who know me will tell you this is one of my major pet peeves). After he mumbled instructions, I had to ask him several times to repeat himself. After giving me exercises, I had to ask him several times how many reps (there's that word again...). While doing exercises, I had to ask him several times "in which muscles should I be feeling this?" He never once asked me about my triathlon training and racing.
We ran out of time but he told me the last part of the workout was supposed to be "bike intervals." Bike intervals? Seriously? Then he asked me if I've ever done bike intervals. Seriously?!?? At the very least, he could have looked up "triathlon" in the dictionary.
Maybe it should be called "impersonal training." Or maybe they should send these people to "personable training." During my session, my trainer spent more time showing me what HE could do in exercises I could BARELY do. Is that the trick? They convince you you need a personal trainer by showing you things you can't possibly hope to do (the first time)? Sounds like job security to me.
And it's a good gig if you can get it. At the end of my "session" I found out personal trainers make a LOT of money. Even with the special "half price deal for signing up within 10 days of my membership." My "trainer" took me in a little glass-enclosed room and told me I needed 12 sessions. Really? What does that cover, 12 months? No. "Six weeks." You've GOT to be kidding. I gave the excuse: "I can't afford it" (this was more than partially true). The next step: "Well, what CAN you afford?" Think fast, Jeanne! "I can't make any financial decisions without talking to my husband."
Whew! Made it out of that one, mostly unscathed. I was not given an option to NOT make a second appointment - "to assess the first session and do the bike intervals." Then I suppose I'll give my final "no." God only knows what excuse I'll come up with then. Whatever it is, I'll have to live with it every time I walk in the door. And I know myself - I'll feel embarrassed and guilty every time I see him. Yes, even though I shouldn't. Which makes me wonder: does personal training extend to the mental realm? Because THAT'S the personal training I could really use.
My morning run today gave me the idea for this blog. While I was pounding the pavement, I saw lightning in the sky and wondered to myself: was it stupid for me to run today knowing that there was a storm rolling in? It made me think of all the risks we athletes take on a daily basis, sometimes by choice and sometimes by accident, and how some of mine may be the very things responsible for making me the Disaster Magnet. Although, lack of common sense and not paying attention do not constitute risk-taking but also may be responsible for some of my disasters.
Some risks are merely the result of an overeager attitude (one of my fundamental personality traits). Some of these risks result in disasters. Some don't. One such risk was the one I took when I was a 14-year-old freshman on my high school track team. I didn't realize I was taking a risk that day when I ran an all-out quarter mile at my track coach's request. Everyone had to do it - no one asked why. This was back in the days when we ran "quarters" and not 400 meters, high school tracks were made out of something called "cinders," and anyone stupid enough to run an all-out lap would end up running that all-out lap in the first track meet of the year. How was I supposed to know that 70 seconds would seal my fate for the next four years? And it wasn't really a disaster -- not until I won that first all-out lap at that first track meet of the year. My "finish line lean" -- yet another risk taken -- threw me onto one of those cinder tracks in one of the most painful -- and most jubilant -- moments of my life. Disaster number one? Perhaps. A risk worth taking? Definitely.
I've learned it may be hard to assess the results of risks taken in the name of overeagerness. For instance, blowing up at the end of a half-marathon or marathon when you think you had your pace under control but went out too fast. A disaster? Sure. A risk worth taking? Yes if you look at the race as a learning experience. No if it's your goal race of the season. Then you should know better. The same goes for nutritional risk-taking in races. It's the reason why practice and B- and C-races are so important. There is no place for risky behavior in your most important event, so get it out of the way beforehand and learn what you're capable of by taking those risks when you have nothing to lose.
And then, some athletic risks are ones we take because we're just being stupid or obsessive. You all know what I'm talking about. Tell me, again, why you're running with that injury? Or why you're not taking the day off when you have a cold or fever? (You have pneumonia now? UM, how did THAT happen?) The problem is that we don't see the risk we take by running through an injury but instead see the risk of taking a few days off. Is there any other group for which pain is not seen as a warning signal from the body? Risking injury by ignoring pain was my disaster M.O. for years -- my marathon running was plagued by five tibial stress fractures in less than 10 years.
Which brings me to today's run. I took a risk. I took three days off from running after my race on Sunday. Will it affect me in Clearwater in November? The rational me says: probably not. The rational me says it was a risk worth taking because I'm burned out. Then I took another risk today. I checked the weather before I left the house and saw that there was a line of thunderstorms just about to hit. I ran anyway. The whole time I was out, I kept thinking "I can run in thunder and lightning, what could possibly happen?" And this is precisely why I may continue to be the Disaster Magnet. I see the potential for disaster -- I live in a neighborhood with a LOT of old trees in a town that has endured severe flooding. But I took the risk anyway. Was there a disaster? No. But that doesn't mean there won't be one next time. And you can be sure that I will blog about it.
I know one thing for sure, home is where the heart is. By "home," I don't mean the house in Connecticut in which I grew up. I mean New England. And I returned to my home this weekend to finish up my regular triathlon season with a race that's very near and dear: the FIRMMan Half-Ironman in Narragansett, Rhode Island. The race usually attracts an excellent field of local athletes and is produced by Fiske Independent Race Management (F.I.R.M.), who organize more than 30 events throughout Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island.
The first time I did the FIRMMan was in 2002. I chose the race for two reasons: it was close to my family and I could use it as a warm-up for Ironman Hawaii. That year, the weather was stellar - sunny, in the 80s, and dry. I did my fastest times ever at both the 70.3 distance (4:35) AND the half-marathon (yes, it's true, my fastest 13.1-mile run ever was in a triathlon). I finished third woman overall that year, and after the race, my parents, my husband Jim, and I spent a nice few hours on the beach before we headed home to Cleveland.
The second time I did the FIRMMan was in 2004. Jim and I were going to be in Connecticut that weekend for a party, and I decided to give the race another shot even though I was not training seriously that year. I don't remember much from that year except that the weather was almost exactly the same as in 2002, I finished third, again, and we had a great time afterward with my parents, again. Sadly, it was the last time my dad would attend one of my races as he passed away from cancer the next year.
Despite great experiences, the FIRMMan was not immune to my disasters. Even though I had a great race in 2002, I had two classic Disaster Magnet-style mishaps on the course. I hit a pothole near the beginning of the bike course and lost my race nutrition bottle, and I took a wrong turn on the bike course and lost about 1-2 minutes. Then, when I attempted a third showing at the FIRMMan in 2008, the entire race was postponed until a later date due to a hurricane sweeping north along the eastern seaboard. We learned this after checking into our hotel in Narragansett.
This year, we had planned to stop in Narragansett for the FIRMMan before continuing on to Cape Cod for a vacation. But, as they say, the best-laid plans... Jim found out he has a torn meniscus and needs knee surgery so we decided to scrap our vacation plans because of his limited mobility. The trip was abbreviated to four days -- to drive, race, and drive home. But we did manage to pick up my mom and drop her back off in Connecticut on the way.
This year's FIRMMan would be the last opportunity to assess my training and tri skills before Ironman 70.3 Clearwater on November 13. I didn't plan much of a taper, but I did take several days easy before the race to get the feel of racing fresh -- something I hadn't done since Lake Placid in July. I dealt with my normal pre-race nerves in a different way this time. I drank two glasses of red wine the night before the race and I was out cold by 9 p.m. We woke up at 3:45 on race morning and got down to the start by 5:15. While it was still dark, I set up my transition, got body-marked and complained about the cold (it was around 50 degrees F).
The race takes place at Narragansett Town Beach with a 1.2-mile point-to-point swim parallel to the shore. I donned my wetsuit while we walked up the beach and got in for a quick warm up at the starting line with 10 minutes to race start. The water felt colder than the official measurement of 70 degrees, but it was warmer than the air. With overcast conditions, the day's high temperature would not reach 70.
Swim finish
Because I signed up in the "elite" category, I would start in the first wave with male and female elites and 50+ men. When it appeared I was the only female in the wave, I regretted the decision. All the other women started in the third wave, eight minutes behind me. In years past, the surf had been rough on the way out but the rest of the swim was relatively calm. This year, the opposite was true -- the deeper water offshore was rough and spotting buoys was more difficult than in the past. At the final turn, a course official directed me to "spot the building!" as the buoys were almost impossible to see and the current on the way in was sweeping athletes off course. I realized this when I reached the shore and several swimmers were running toward the transition from the far left. Despite unfavorable conditions, I had one of my faster swims and crossed the chip-mat around 25 minutes. There were very efficient wetsuit peelers just inside the transition zone, making my transition much quicker.
Bike start, adjusting my jersey
The FIRMMan bike course can be described as rolling New England hills and remains the site of my second fastest 56-mile ride ever. The air temperature was in the 50s for the start of the bike leg, and I found myself launching so many snot rockets even NASA would be proud (my husband thinks that would make a good name for a punk band). I was glad I decided to wear my bike jersey, but it did absolutely nothing for my feet which were blocks of ice for most of the ride. I was able to keep my average speed just over 20 mph until we faced a strong headwind in the last 15- to 20-mile stretch.
I spent most of the first hour of the ride jockeying for position with one of the 50+ male riders. He spent most of that time looking over his shoulder at me (or who-knows-what?). At the first major hill, I gave him the old Contador slip when he threw his chain. He eventually caught and passed me, and then I didn't see him again until the last five miles. When I finally caught him again, he had words of wisdom for me: "great way to come back!" (as though I had rallied to catch him). I didn't have the heart to break the news that it wasn't I who sped up, but actually he who slowed down. Only one woman passed me on the bike, but she was on a relay team and I re-passed her before the transition. At 2:46, my bike time was at least six minutes slower than I expected.
In transition, the announcer noted I was the first woman off the bike and on the run course. Neither he nor I had a clue on the performances of the women behind me. And I knew that if any of them were within eight minutes of me, I wasn't actually leading the race.
Which brings me to the run. If I had any designs on winning this race, I had to be at least eight minutes in front of the second woman by the time I finished the run. The run is on gradual rolling hills through neighborhoods and scenic by-ways. The only major hill - a steady incline - begins well before the first mile marker and doesn't end until after mile 2. This hill also leads runners down to the finish. Thus, my strategy was to run hard for 11 miles and follow it with a two-mile controlled fall. On the course, I would gauge my overall lead (if I still had one) at the two 180-degree turns when the course loops back on itself.
At the start of the run, I heard Jim say "relax - go out easy!" I heeded his advice and settled into my classic marathon shuffle step. Based on how I felt and a nagging sharp pain in my hip, I thought a 7-minute mile pace would be my best bet. After the first mile, the hip pain settled a bit and I split a 6:57 at mile 2, the uphill mile. It was at this moment I realized the potential for this to be my best run of the season.
The beach finish
At the first turnaround near mile 4, I kept an eye out for the second woman. She was about five or six minutes back. I had to stay strong. I alternated water and Gatorade at the aid stations with no walking. My goal was to keep every mile under seven minutes. I would have done it had it not been for one equipment malfunction -- my salt capsule container was catapulted from my tri shorts and I had to stop to retrieve during mile 8. By the second turnaround near mile 9, I noticed I was more than 10 minutes ahead of any woman I saw on the course.
The excitement of my lead got me through miles 10 and 11 and into the final downhill miles. This thrill came to a sudden end when I realized my memory failed me. The FIRMMan had one more trick up its sleeve before the finish line -- the "beach quarter." The final quarter mile of the run course is on beach sand. It's almost like acing a multiple-choice exam only to find out there are essay questions at the end. It felt like I would never reach the finish line, but then I was there -- and smiling. I finally hit that sub-1:30 half-marathon that I had almost given up on.
Awards ceremony
It didn't take long after finishing for me to start shivering in the cold. Jim confirmed that I had won the women's race while I changed into dry clothes and packed up my bike and wetsuit. The finish line included a awesome post-race meal (as always here) and luau. Then I remembered yet another awesome thing about this race. All the category winners get to choose their awards from a table full of "stuff" which this year included great items such as Tyr transition bags and triathlon clothing certificates from sponsor V3 Multisport in Arlington, Massachusetts. I chose a bottle of Hammergel that came with a QuintanaRoo wetsuit - you can't beat that deal! We spent a little time meeting and talking to other triathletes before it was time for us to head back to the hotel and get cleaned up so that the non-triathletes (Jim and mom) could have a little fun and dinner before we left Rhode Island.
And it's always hard to leave. Because it feels like I'm already home.
