Tampa Bay, Florida, Gasparilla Distance Classic Marathon
March 1, 2009
State number 7! This is the point at which I decide for sure that I might as well try to run a marathon in each of the 50 states.
After suffering through frigid winter weather in DC, I thought Florida would provide a sunny, warm venue on March 1. But this was, so far, my coldest marathon (that is, for overall temps--San Antonio was colder in the morning) and my wettest and windiest. At the start line, about 1300 people gathered in the dark on a rough cobblestoned street. The forecast called for miserable weather: 40s, rain, wind, and possibly thunderstorms. Well, the gun went off, so off we went too, and the rain held off for about 90 minutes. I can't say the sun rose; let's say a pallid, sickly shade of mauve replaced the pitch black in the sky. We ran through some posh neighborhoods where every other yard had a For Sale sign clattering in the wind. I selected a couple of stately, beautifully landscaped properties for myself. A few crimson rays of sun appeared for just a few minutes, and then scary inky clouds obscured the light again, and the wind started, and the rain started, first as a sprinkle and then as a frenzied, battering downpour. My hair, dahlings, was Such a Mess! I was completely soaked within a minute. Socks drenched. Squish squish squish... Sneakers turned into Spongebobs. Yikes, 18.2 miles to go...
Now what you must understand is that because of a fine sinus infection that I had picked up in the middle of January, I had been out of commission and had NOT run for about 5 weeks because this illness was just incapacitating to the max. My longest run since January 15 had been 8 miles, a week before this marathon.
So, I knew I should not race this, but airfare and entry fee having already been disbursed, there was no way I was going to NOT show up. I figured I could just do a slow, fun sort of distance "walk-run." I pictured warm breezes, palm fronds swaying... But it was SO cold and SO wet and SO windy and SO just plain dreary that I couldn't walk--or I would freeze or get depressed to death! So I ran. But I really felt the lack of training. My knees were wobbly, my quads hurt, I was sure eight or nine blisters were forming, and breathing was tough (Humidity, about 200%). At some point I overheard a runner telling another that there was thunder further out and they might have to stop the race. My thought was, Oh, yes, good idea! would you PLEASE stop this torture?
As you can imagine, there was precious little crowd support, with this nasty stormy weather; but one lady in a pirate costume did her best to encourage us at mile 18 (arrgh, me hearties), and a few hardy, tanned folks under umbrellas, sipping steaming cups of java, casually cheered us on. ("You're almost done" is so cruel to hear when you know you've got 9, 8, 7, whatever number of miles left...) When I finally reached Mile 24, I was really spent and had to start walking, and what do you think happened? The clouds parted a bit, the rain stopped, the wind abated, and the sun shone for about 10 minutes. That little bit of sunshine was heaven. Reaching the finish line and getting that big, bad, piratical medal was heaven. Spent the rest of the day in bed, sleeping. Heaven.
Time: 4:56:32; Placed: 17/28 division/ 367/502 females; 1036/1307 overall.
Moral of this Marathon: State mottos are not all they're cracked up to be. Florida, the Sunshine State... yeah, right! : )
Actually, given the circumstances, the race organizers did a good job, and there was food at the finish, which was sheltered from the rain. And the medal rocks: Skull and crossbones, a symbol of the pain endured.
Note: Sadly, this marathon spoiler was the storm in which NFL players went out on a boat and were shipwrecked and only one guy survived.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Got Four More States Checked OFF!
November 16, 2008
San Antonio, TX--Inaugural Rock'n'Roll Marathon.
My time at SA marathon was not stellar; I was hoping to do a bit better, but I have a list of very good excuses, not the least of which is the rank and hideous hotel that I innocently booked and which forced me and my daughter to be outside the room two entire days before the marathon, mostly walking around about 40 miles a day. The stench of dead rats inside the hotel room was so overpowering we did not enjoy staying inside. Even with the night temps in the 30s we had the window open all night in order to breathe. The smoke detectors had been ripped out of the ceiling. The bathroom sink was clogged. The furniture was broken (yeah, we took pictures and we're complaining). Nuff said. We searched the city for another hotel room, but with the marathon and a big convention in town, nothing was available until Sunday (after the race...).
It was damn cold (37 degrees F) and dark when I set out at 5:30 am to catch the shuttle to the start line, too early perhaps but smart in retrospect, since I learned later that there was a snafu with some shuttles not returning to pick up about 1,000 runners, who waited and waited and finally crammed into taxis to get to the race start.
The starting area was very dark, with nary a shelter in sight. The only glimmerings were those of lovely frost formations on the grass. No Starbucks anywhere in the vicinity! No Starbucks? Can this be America? Nope, it's TEXAS! We the runners (those who had taken the early shuttles) stomped our feet and danced in place for 2 hours in order not to freeze and lose toes to frostbite. By the time the gun went off, we (meaning I) were (was) already exhausted. They let corrals out exquisitely slowly so that when mine was let go (# 16), it was almost 30 minutes after the gun start (and there were 16 more corrals behind mine). To prevent crowding on the course, the volunteers would wait until the previous corral runners were almost out of sight before releasing the next one. So when we were finally let out, everyone ran like bats out of hell to try to catch up with the runners way down there, far, far away. My first mile was just over 10 minutes, and I wanted it to be slower, but who could tell the pace? Everyone was passing me, it seemed. And it was so cold it felt good to move at last.
It was damn cold (37 degrees F) and dark when I set out at 5:30 am to catch the shuttle to the start line, too early perhaps but smart in retrospect, since I learned later that there was a snafu with some shuttles not returning to pick up about 1,000 runners, who waited and waited and finally crammed into taxis to get to the race start.
The starting area was very dark, with nary a shelter in sight. The only glimmerings were those of lovely frost formations on the grass. No Starbucks anywhere in the vicinity! No Starbucks? Can this be America? Nope, it's TEXAS! We the runners (those who had taken the early shuttles) stomped our feet and danced in place for 2 hours in order not to freeze and lose toes to frostbite. By the time the gun went off, we (meaning I) were (was) already exhausted. They let corrals out exquisitely slowly so that when mine was let go (# 16), it was almost 30 minutes after the gun start (and there were 16 more corrals behind mine). To prevent crowding on the course, the volunteers would wait until the previous corral runners were almost out of sight before releasing the next one. So when we were finally let out, everyone ran like bats out of hell to try to catch up with the runners way down there, far, far away. My first mile was just over 10 minutes, and I wanted it to be slower, but who could tell the pace? Everyone was passing me, it seemed. And it was so cold it felt good to move at last.
When the sun came up and over the buildings it finally warmed up, and I took off 2 layers on top and one on the bottom while running (hard to do the bottom part while running, but with practice I will get better). (Yes, I did have shorts under the sweat pants. And I wore my FTM singlet, the 2008 edition that says "The Marathon: 26.2. Never a doubt") I lost several minutes in a disgusting porta-potty. Unlike some of our trainers who emerge from those structures in a highly energized state, I was not invigorated by the sight or smell. How some people manage to smear their excrement all over the seat is beyond me. Is it that hard to just centrally position a rear end over the seat? I had to spend some time on logistics and then, after exiting, on warning the next person in line and exculpating myself. Note to self: Always carry your own tissues.
It got hot (75?) at around mile 15. Perfectly blue sky, lots of sunshine. The course was beautiful and scenic, if a little twisted (yes, I ran the tangents!), and tons of spectators and bands cheered us on. My daughter actually caught me at mile 9. I remember some old Spanish missions, I remember Victorian mansions to rival Charleston's best, I remember some hills, I remember a river, I remember more hills; in fact, I remember a 5-mile hill starting at mile 17 not unlike the return trip on the CCT that we often take on our long training runs; I remember that hideous and treacherous finish line hill, which nixed any hope of glorious last-minute sprinting to a triumphant finish. In short, I remember The Alamo! It was the same kind of feeling, except I think nobody died during this marathon. One spectator wearing a shirt saying in huge letters "YANKEES SUCK" appeared about thirty times along the course. How did he do that? I thought I was hallucinating. At the finish line my daughter was there with a camera, and we had the best cold beer(s) ever! (Glad she's finally of drinking age!)
It got hot (75?) at around mile 15. Perfectly blue sky, lots of sunshine. The course was beautiful and scenic, if a little twisted (yes, I ran the tangents!), and tons of spectators and bands cheered us on. My daughter actually caught me at mile 9. I remember some old Spanish missions, I remember Victorian mansions to rival Charleston's best, I remember some hills, I remember a river, I remember more hills; in fact, I remember a 5-mile hill starting at mile 17 not unlike the return trip on the CCT that we often take on our long training runs; I remember that hideous and treacherous finish line hill, which nixed any hope of glorious last-minute sprinting to a triumphant finish. In short, I remember The Alamo! It was the same kind of feeling, except I think nobody died during this marathon. One spectator wearing a shirt saying in huge letters "YANKEES SUCK" appeared about thirty times along the course. How did he do that? I thought I was hallucinating. At the finish line my daughter was there with a camera, and we had the best cold beer(s) ever! (Glad she's finally of drinking age!)
But what of my FTM compatriot?? I looked for those elusive compression knee-high socks everywhere on the course and at the finish area but didn't spy Nick "the Brit" until later that evening at a Mexican restaurant (Mi Tierra, scrumptiously delicious, we went there three times for breakfast [and that was just on one day!]). Ah, yes, nothing takes the hurt of the marathon out of you better than a couple of margaritas and a good steak! (Unless you're vegetarian, in which case I recommend the cheese enchiladas iCaramba! idelicioso!) All in all, a good race for me, my tenth marathon, finished in 4:45:44, missing perfect fours by 60 seconds. Pace: 10:45 minutes per mile. (Curses on you, porta-potty!) Placed 86/280 in my division, 1505/3511 females, 4055/7526 overall.
That's it, my peeps, I had a fun time. I recommend this race: great crowd support, beautiful course, fun bands every mile or so, and did I mention ice-cold foamy beer at the finish? By the way, when I landed in San Antonio and saw the line at the car rental, I decided to do without the petroleum-mobile, and that was a brilliant move--you really don't need one unless you want to explore the hill country outside San Antonio. San Antonio itself has a great trolley system, which we used all the time, and the people are extremely friendly. Also, The Riverwalk is just wonderful to stroll along; however, the better restaurants are NOT on Riverwalk. So do give San Antonio a try. But don't book the cheaper hotels. And bring a disposable fur coat and a portable heater to the start line. And sanitizing wipes.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Guns in National Parks
Sick but true: weapons of small-mass destruction are to be allowed into our National Parks. ("House approves measure to allow guns into national parks" Washington Post Thu May 21, A6). Who are these 105 "Democrats" who backed this insane idea? If it is a right to carry a gun, that right should be observed, respected, and enforced in any public place, correct? Why then are gun owners denied their rights in Federal buildings? in schools? on airplanes? If guns are not a threat to MY life in a National Park, they should not be a threat to anyone's life anywhere, including schools, airplanes, and Federal buildings. Is the life of an air traveler, an elected official, or school age child more sacred than that of a hiker in a National Park and require special protection? I think not, unless our sense of ethics is seriously twisted. Therefore, I submit that if guns are allowed in National Parks, guns should be allowed in the Capitol, during White House tours, and on airplanes.
Full-needled cactus jab to the 279 morons who passed this bill in the House.
Full-needled cactus jab to the 279 morons who passed this bill in the House.
Monday, July 7, 2008
More Photos from Nevada
More pics from my Vegas adventure: Note the totally fake smile as I trudge along (all alone!) on the last leg of the Journey, above. Pic on left is how the landscape actually looked and pic on right is how it felt. Pic center in the third row shows the Cactus 24 hours after finishing (got a little cleaned up), about to go do The Strip. Above that, I'm sightseeing on my last day in Nevada, at Red Rock Canyon, about 20 miles out of Vegas, and below that is a hardy vegetative warrior in the desert, somewhere near Lake Mead.
For more information on the Devil race, see http://www.calicoracing.com/. They run a sister race, "Running from an Angel," in January, on the exact same course. Temps are about 50 degrees cooler! People usually have a much easier run and score better finish times (duh!), but do they have more truly delirious fun than at the Devil? Doubtful.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL
HALF-MARATHON
A Race Report in Thirteen Point One Segments
One—Temptation
I am looking for races around the country. I’ve decided to do a distance race in each of the 50 states plus the District of Columbia. Distance, for me, means half-marathon or longer. I have checked off Arizona, California, DC, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Ohio, and Virginia. I am currently in a group training for a marathon in the fall; I plan to do Texas in November, and normally we don’t do too many races while training. But surely I can sneak in a couple of half-marathons between now and then.
Perusing a marathon website for races in June, I come across an unusual listing. “Running with the Devil”—a race just outside Las Vegas, Nevada, a week after the Summer Solstice. The host hotel rates are extremely decent. I like the unabashedly evil slant of the organizers, who say they go out of their way to ensure hideous conditions. I like the fat Calico cat logo, very cute. There’s a choice of 5 races: 5K, 10K, half-marathon, full marathon, 50-miler. I check out the results from 2007, and they give me pause. My guardian angel tugs on my sleeve: “JeeZus H, will you look at the finish times? Look how many dropped! Be reasonable and by-pass this one... you hate the heat... remember Kona?” But the Devil in my heart whispers, “Come On.... you can do it... don’t be wimpy.... and hey, look at the small field... this could be your chance to brag about an Award. And look, there is a prize for best satanic costume.”
Hell yeah! I allow the silver-tongued fiend to lead me astray and I register, coughing up 70 bucks to Calico Racing (“the Cat’s meow in sports”). I pretend nonchalance as I sign a form discharging everybody including the Governor of Nevada of any liabilities that I might incur such as illness or death or encounters with the Devil.
Later I will perhaps wonder at how eagerly I sought the privilege of this infernal suffering.
Two—My Training Heats up
The Calico Racing website, like a preacher at the pulpit, gives ample warnings of the evils lurking in this race. Of all the awful things that can screw up a race, I know that the worst is probably excessive heat. But hey! June in the D.C. area is usually damn hot and humid, and I should be acclimated by June 28. In fact, think I pridefully, we probably out-do these Nevada folks because they may have the heat but we beat them hands down with our high humidity! That nice dry heat will seem EASY to run in!
Friday, June 6. I am SO lucky! Unseasonably hot weather is hitting the DC area. Temps in the upper eighties, humidity up there too! Everybody is whining; I grin. I wait for the temps to reach their highest, and then I run from home, up Tuckerman Lane; it’s a steady though low-grade uphill; cement sidewalk, lots of car exhaust, not too much shade, what’s not to like? I run too fast; I feel kind of sick but it’s just my first “hot” run, and it’s just 3 miles.
Sunday, June 8. The Three H’s of summer in DC: Hot, Hazy, Humid. Perfect for training for Hell. Our training group bravely tackles the 12-mile LSD (long slow distance) run as the temps climb to 95 degrees. Some have to walk a bit. But I run through it and I feel okay. Looking good for Nevada!
Tuesday, June 10. Yes! More of the same! Ninety-two degrees and 76% humidity: heat index, 118, according to my chart. Excellent training for Nevada. I do my projected 5 miles and catch my reflection in a car mirror. My cheeks are fuchsia. The water in my bottle is hot enough to brew tea. I pant like a German shepherd. But I haven’t thrown up or stopped.
Friday, June 13. Code Orange day again (for ozone and heat, not terrorism). I do a 6.5-miler and really break a sweat there, but I don’t feel incapacitated.
This Devil thing should be a piece of cake.
Three—Pride Goeth before the Fall
Uh-oh. Unseasonably cool weather lays siege to the Nation’s Capital, and my plan for acclimatization goes to hell in a handbasket. A web page discussing the challenges of running in heat says that 2 weeks is the MINIMUM amount of time needed to acclimate. Argh! It better get hot again soon! This nice weather is poking major holes in my strategy.
Time to concentrate on the costume. The song “Devil with a Blue Dress” is knocking at the right side of my brain. Serendipitously, I find a book on Tee-shirt morphing and create a $2 Blue Dress costume with nothing but a long blue tee-shirt, scissors, my alphabet stencil, and a wide marker. I cut the top off, make ribbons with it to make shoulder straps, and cut the bottom of the shirt into a flapper-like fringe. I poke a hole right above the butt and insert a tail, home-made out of self-adhesive red felt. I draw an alligator on a white painter’s cap that I bought at a crafts store for one dollar. I stencil BLUE DRESS on the dress; on the hat, I stencil ALLIGATOR HAT, and I stick red felt horns on top. I hope most of the runners are not too young to have heard Mitch and the Detroit Pistons croon out their “Fee fee fy fy fo fo fum, looking mighty fine, here she comes, Devil with a Blue Dress, Blue Dress on, she’s a Devil with a blue dress on...” I plan to wear this on top of my shorts and shirt and remove the costume just before I start the race if it really does feel too hot, or else at the first aid station.
HALF-MARATHON
A Race Report in Thirteen Point One Segments
One—Temptation
I am looking for races around the country. I’ve decided to do a distance race in each of the 50 states plus the District of Columbia. Distance, for me, means half-marathon or longer. I have checked off Arizona, California, DC, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Ohio, and Virginia. I am currently in a group training for a marathon in the fall; I plan to do Texas in November, and normally we don’t do too many races while training. But surely I can sneak in a couple of half-marathons between now and then.
Perusing a marathon website for races in June, I come across an unusual listing. “Running with the Devil”—a race just outside Las Vegas, Nevada, a week after the Summer Solstice. The host hotel rates are extremely decent. I like the unabashedly evil slant of the organizers, who say they go out of their way to ensure hideous conditions. I like the fat Calico cat logo, very cute. There’s a choice of 5 races: 5K, 10K, half-marathon, full marathon, 50-miler. I check out the results from 2007, and they give me pause. My guardian angel tugs on my sleeve: “JeeZus H, will you look at the finish times? Look how many dropped! Be reasonable and by-pass this one... you hate the heat... remember Kona?” But the Devil in my heart whispers, “Come On.... you can do it... don’t be wimpy.... and hey, look at the small field... this could be your chance to brag about an Award. And look, there is a prize for best satanic costume.”
Hell yeah! I allow the silver-tongued fiend to lead me astray and I register, coughing up 70 bucks to Calico Racing (“the Cat’s meow in sports”). I pretend nonchalance as I sign a form discharging everybody including the Governor of Nevada of any liabilities that I might incur such as illness or death or encounters with the Devil.
Later I will perhaps wonder at how eagerly I sought the privilege of this infernal suffering.
Two—My Training Heats up
The Calico Racing website, like a preacher at the pulpit, gives ample warnings of the evils lurking in this race. Of all the awful things that can screw up a race, I know that the worst is probably excessive heat. But hey! June in the D.C. area is usually damn hot and humid, and I should be acclimated by June 28. In fact, think I pridefully, we probably out-do these Nevada folks because they may have the heat but we beat them hands down with our high humidity! That nice dry heat will seem EASY to run in!
Friday, June 6. I am SO lucky! Unseasonably hot weather is hitting the DC area. Temps in the upper eighties, humidity up there too! Everybody is whining; I grin. I wait for the temps to reach their highest, and then I run from home, up Tuckerman Lane; it’s a steady though low-grade uphill; cement sidewalk, lots of car exhaust, not too much shade, what’s not to like? I run too fast; I feel kind of sick but it’s just my first “hot” run, and it’s just 3 miles.
Sunday, June 8. The Three H’s of summer in DC: Hot, Hazy, Humid. Perfect for training for Hell. Our training group bravely tackles the 12-mile LSD (long slow distance) run as the temps climb to 95 degrees. Some have to walk a bit. But I run through it and I feel okay. Looking good for Nevada!
Tuesday, June 10. Yes! More of the same! Ninety-two degrees and 76% humidity: heat index, 118, according to my chart. Excellent training for Nevada. I do my projected 5 miles and catch my reflection in a car mirror. My cheeks are fuchsia. The water in my bottle is hot enough to brew tea. I pant like a German shepherd. But I haven’t thrown up or stopped.
Friday, June 13. Code Orange day again (for ozone and heat, not terrorism). I do a 6.5-miler and really break a sweat there, but I don’t feel incapacitated.
This Devil thing should be a piece of cake.
Three—Pride Goeth before the Fall
Uh-oh. Unseasonably cool weather lays siege to the Nation’s Capital, and my plan for acclimatization goes to hell in a handbasket. A web page discussing the challenges of running in heat says that 2 weeks is the MINIMUM amount of time needed to acclimate. Argh! It better get hot again soon! This nice weather is poking major holes in my strategy.
Time to concentrate on the costume. The song “Devil with a Blue Dress” is knocking at the right side of my brain. Serendipitously, I find a book on Tee-shirt morphing and create a $2 Blue Dress costume with nothing but a long blue tee-shirt, scissors, my alphabet stencil, and a wide marker. I cut the top off, make ribbons with it to make shoulder straps, and cut the bottom of the shirt into a flapper-like fringe. I poke a hole right above the butt and insert a tail, home-made out of self-adhesive red felt. I draw an alligator on a white painter’s cap that I bought at a crafts store for one dollar. I stencil BLUE DRESS on the dress; on the hat, I stencil ALLIGATOR HAT, and I stick red felt horns on top. I hope most of the runners are not too young to have heard Mitch and the Detroit Pistons croon out their “Fee fee fy fy fo fo fum, looking mighty fine, here she comes, Devil with a Blue Dress, Blue Dress on, she’s a Devil with a blue dress on...” I plan to wear this on top of my shorts and shirt and remove the costume just before I start the race if it really does feel too hot, or else at the first aid station.
Four—Too Late To Turn Back Now
Thursday, June 26—Hell and damnation! The beautiful weather has continued unabated as I make my way to the airport. On my westward journey, my apprehension builds as I read the last “letter to registered athletes” that Joyce, the race director, has e-mailed us. I have not had enough training in the heat. Plus, there is a 3-hour difference between DC and Boulder City. The half-marathon begins at noon on Saturday, just to make sure we don’t miss any opportunities for sunstroke! I will have to adjust my schedule and not get up too early, or else by the time the race starts I’ll be ready for dinner! Must stay up late tonight and Friday and sleep in as late as I can.
Five—Checking out the Course
Friday, June 27—I wake up at 3 a.m. (6 a.m., EDT) and can’t get back to sleep. So I bide my time, watch the stars dim and the sky brighten from my hotel room, which is vast and has a nice big window affording great views, by the way, even from the “non-scenic,” non-Lake-Mead-view, cheaper-rate side. The host hotel is the Hacienda, which is also a casino. At four o’clock in the morning there are already—or still—people downstairs playing at the slot machines. Later I sightsee, I check out Boulder City, pick up some food, my sports drink, some salt packets, and then I go to the lake. At Boulder Beach there are palm trees and a vast expanse of sand. Could be Florida, if you ignore the mountains in the background. Oh yes, it is hot, but as they say, it IS dry, so you feel enveloped and cocooned as opposed to having your lungs sucked out by the humidity. There is a steady breeze, however, and that might be a bit of a challenge tomorrow, I think after spending all of three minutes outside the car.
I get back in and drive the course. Folks, it is breathtaking. Rolling hills, rocky crests, mountains across the lake that seem to glow from inside in various shades of chocolate and russet, barely any vegetation except some parched sagebrush, some hardy weeds, and a few creosote bushes. A lunar landscape, were it not for Lake Mead shining like a turquoise gem under flawless azure skies. It is a haven of solitude and meditative spirituality. I rehearse the course mentally, imagine myself trotting along, rejoicing at the many downhills, worrying a bit about the corresponding uphills, since this is an out-and-back course. The elevation profile from the website looked daunting, but the reality of the course is not so bad.
Especially when riding in an air-conditioned car while sipping an iced drink.
Six—Packet Pick-up
This is where, if I were so inclined, I would size up the competition. But I’m not in this running thing for winning (or else I would have quit long ago). I am on the AARP side of fifty, I am short, I am slow, I’ve had a couple of stress fractures, I’m not going to push it. I am in it for the health benefits and for the fun factor and because I am curious to see how I will do under these conditions. Also, I am very curious to see what sort of creature is the Fifty-Miler. Those are the people that really freak me out. Under the best of conditions, I would probably die at mile 38. Under these vile conditions, I might as well lie down by the side of the road at mile one and wait for the birds of prey and coyotes. But these folks look cheerful, even excited at their self-imposed upcoming execution. One nice young man tells me he will probably do it in 8 or 9 hours. Good golly miss Molly!
A special treat awaits my curiosity, since the Western States 100-mile run, which was supposed to take place the same day as the Devil, has been cancelled due to the fires in California, and some of the runners who registered for that race will be doing the Devil instead. So I see some people who are presumably twice as crazy as the 50-milers. Welcome one and all! I pick up a very cute red tank top with the word DEVIL lovingly calligraphied in sparkly black on the front, and off I go to the Alaskan King Crab buffet feast. To keep myself awake as late as possible, I play the slot machines and win $19.50. An omen for success tomorrow? It’s still pretty early, but I go back to my room to just lie down and read a bit and immediately fall asleep.
Seven—Race Day—Morning
Three oh eight a.m. Saturday morning, and I am wide awake. Obviously my plan to sleep late has evaporated, and what with nerves and all, there is no way I will snooze now. I put on my horns and go down to the race start to see the sun come up and watch the 50-milers start. Apparently those who start at 6 a.m. call themselves the “wimps” (because they enjoy, what? maybe one hour of bracing temperatures under 80 degrees?), and those who start at 8 a.m. are the real troopers. Such fine distinctions make no sense to me since the heat of the inferno is bound to catch them at some point, one and all, and I marvel at their guts! Dressed in white like Arabian sheiks with white cloth flapping about their ears, they cheerfully set off in the glowing red morning.
At 6:15 the 5K runners start; at 6:30 the 10K runners start; I hardly have time to adjust my camera and get noisemakers from my car when the 5K winner arrives 17 minutes and dust after his start time; the runners trickle in and report that the first quarter-mile of the race is a challenge in itself, a short but steep uphill that took them by surprise. I make note of that and decide I should walk that part so as not to exhaust myself. And now maybe I should go get some rest and a little breakfast before dressing for the run. It’s getting hotter every minute. In fact, it’s really, really hot already. Hotter than hell.
I’m scared to death and fitfully excited at the same time. Napping is out of the question.
Eight—Race Day—Countdown and Report of Rascals
We have been instructed to report to the Start line one hour before the race; so at 11 I arrive. I talk to a few other runners. One woman says she did it last year and it was pure hell with temps of 118! But she is back! and hoping for a better time this year, with our relatively cooler temperature.
I learn that some pieces of human trash have actually STOLEN an entire aid station somewhere beyond mile 11; this happened in the wee hours of the morning. May these evil souls walk forever toward an aid station that never materializes, may they desiccate under an implacable sun for all eternity, and may their yellow livers be plucked out by turkey buzzards and their intestines be chewed up by coyotes.
Well, it’s finally the noon hour and Joyce gives us last-minute instructions (I think “have fun” may have been in there); the photographer takes a few group pics, and off we go up that first hill.
Nine—First Two Miles
The 5K runners were correct about that first little uphill. By the time I’ve done that first quarter-mile, I am already sweating like crazy; and I’m among the few people that rarely sweat; my sweat mechanism kicked in only after 4 years of running, well into my forties, and it only happens when I run in very hot weather.
In all the excitement I forget to take in a bit of salt, which I was told is the only way I will survive this. A volunteer picks up my Blue Dress and Alligator Hat at the top of this hellish hill. By the time I’ve adjusted my Lawrence of Arabia headdress and taken a few swigs of sports drink, I see that everyone has all but disappeared far ahead. I jog at what seems a snail’s pace, trying to rejoin the rearguard. At mile one my watch says 11:28; not bad, but too fast for my carefully planned strategy. Why are all those people going so fast already? Unconsciously I kick the pace up a bit and pass a couple of people; at mile 2, I get a pace reading of 10:27—way too fast for me for the first few miles, which I wanted to do at 12 minutes per mile. A few minutes later I realize I am completely wiped out and start walking. The thought enters my pea brain that I won’t be able to finish. More than 10 miles to go, and all I want is a cool place to lie down in! The sun is like a blowtorch. My sunglasses slide down my nose. I have to pull down my cap as close as possible to screen out the incredible glaring brightness out there. Broiling wafts rising from the pits of hell beneath me keep pulling my bandanna flaps up, the better to fry my ears. I gobble a couple of sport beans and take a few more swigs of my (now boiling hot) sports drink. Yuck. I was babbling on yesterday about the meditative solitude of the magnificent mountains, right? Forget it; all that stuff was idiotic bunk. This place is ridiculous. People who run out here are insane. This road is black and blinding at the same time, and I’ll never get to the end of it. I am alone out here. Glancing behind, I don’t even see the people I passed. Did they turn back? Are people dropping out already? The EMS vans whiz by several times. Are they carrying corpses? Omigod. The first aid station is at mile 3.1. I’ll just call it a day there and drop out. Who needs another dumb medal?
Ten—The Aid Station
By hook, by crook, by golly I somehow make it to the first aid station (cleverly situated at the top of a hill after a turn). This outpost is peopled with Angels who give out ice, pretzels, gummy bears, orange slices, T-bone steaks. The first thing I want is shade and something cold. An Angel fills my cap with ice and I stick it back on my head for instant brain cooling. I usually hate cold stuff on me, but baby, bring this one on! I get a “chill towel,” which is a kick-ass new product made of terrycloth injected somehow with natural ingredients such as menthol, aloe vera, and something citrusy. You dip it in cold water and the darn thing becomes an instant portable cooling mechanism. When the towel gets warmer, you shake it out a bit and it becomes cool again. It has a loop at one of the corners so that you can secure it around your neck. Pretty darn cool.
As my eyes adjust to the relative darkness under the canopy, I become aware that someone is hurting more than me. Ouch! One of the resident Devils has played a trick on a young woman and pulled her leg, making her stumble onto the melted asphalt and slicing her knee open on red-hot rocks. Her wound bleeds spectacularly down her leg. She’s getting bandaged and instead of asking for a stretcher seems intent on continuing. My wimpiness becomes evident to me by contrast. A gentleman runner is helping her out. By the time I’m done crunching on some pretzels and getting ice in my bottle, in my shorts, in my bra, in my cap, in my ears, the stout-hearted pair is preparing to go forward and I join them, endlessly grateful for their company. Juliet and Jess. Thank you my friends.
Eleven—The Three Musketeers (or Stooges?)
We are all three hurting and dazed, but somehow the companionship lessens the evil tremendously. We talk, we walk. We attempt jogging a bit on the downhills. Julie’s knee bleeds more profusely when she runs, and Jess is cramping. I’m feeling a little light-headed and am concentrating on staying within the line (always a problem for me to stay within the lines) lest one of the many enormous hurtling vehicles, most of them towing aircraft carriers, pulverize me. The road goes on and on forever. I am still conscious of the magnificence of the landscape, but now I see the subtext of cruelty upon which it feeds. For much of the course, we can see the amazing blue of Lake Mead, cool, glittering, and unreachable, but Julie’s experience prevents a tourist-y frame of mind. Make sure you know where your foot is going to land next. Survival comes first.
Did I mention that there is a Devil posing as a photographer on this course? He pops up everywhere, jumping out of his fossil-fueled chariot, and records our miserable moments on this patch of earth. He is having a great time, laughing, joking. We pretend, as soon as we see his evil equipment, that we are having a blast out here. So if you see pics of three cheerful companions maniacally smiling, don’t be fooled. All veneer.
We make it to aid station number 2, a mile or so before the turnaround. Julie gets bandaged up again. Now there are plenty of people crossing our path, the people who are on their way back; we’re not sure which are 50-milers (who started at 6 or 8 a.m.), which are full marathoners (who started at 10), and which are half-marathoners (who started when the friggin’ sun was at his friggin’ zenith!). Everyone looks beat but determined. The turnaround is at the top of a hill. An Angel is there with a clipboard, taking our bib numbers and jotting down our time, and he tells us we are doing awesome. We’ve been on the road for 1 hour and 40 minutes. Normally I’d be at mile 10 at this point, not 6.55.
Especially when riding in an air-conditioned car while sipping an iced drink.
Six—Packet Pick-up
This is where, if I were so inclined, I would size up the competition. But I’m not in this running thing for winning (or else I would have quit long ago). I am on the AARP side of fifty, I am short, I am slow, I’ve had a couple of stress fractures, I’m not going to push it. I am in it for the health benefits and for the fun factor and because I am curious to see how I will do under these conditions. Also, I am very curious to see what sort of creature is the Fifty-Miler. Those are the people that really freak me out. Under the best of conditions, I would probably die at mile 38. Under these vile conditions, I might as well lie down by the side of the road at mile one and wait for the birds of prey and coyotes. But these folks look cheerful, even excited at their self-imposed upcoming execution. One nice young man tells me he will probably do it in 8 or 9 hours. Good golly miss Molly!
A special treat awaits my curiosity, since the Western States 100-mile run, which was supposed to take place the same day as the Devil, has been cancelled due to the fires in California, and some of the runners who registered for that race will be doing the Devil instead. So I see some people who are presumably twice as crazy as the 50-milers. Welcome one and all! I pick up a very cute red tank top with the word DEVIL lovingly calligraphied in sparkly black on the front, and off I go to the Alaskan King Crab buffet feast. To keep myself awake as late as possible, I play the slot machines and win $19.50. An omen for success tomorrow? It’s still pretty early, but I go back to my room to just lie down and read a bit and immediately fall asleep.
Seven—Race Day—Morning
Three oh eight a.m. Saturday morning, and I am wide awake. Obviously my plan to sleep late has evaporated, and what with nerves and all, there is no way I will snooze now. I put on my horns and go down to the race start to see the sun come up and watch the 50-milers start. Apparently those who start at 6 a.m. call themselves the “wimps” (because they enjoy, what? maybe one hour of bracing temperatures under 80 degrees?), and those who start at 8 a.m. are the real troopers. Such fine distinctions make no sense to me since the heat of the inferno is bound to catch them at some point, one and all, and I marvel at their guts! Dressed in white like Arabian sheiks with white cloth flapping about their ears, they cheerfully set off in the glowing red morning.
At 6:15 the 5K runners start; at 6:30 the 10K runners start; I hardly have time to adjust my camera and get noisemakers from my car when the 5K winner arrives 17 minutes and dust after his start time; the runners trickle in and report that the first quarter-mile of the race is a challenge in itself, a short but steep uphill that took them by surprise. I make note of that and decide I should walk that part so as not to exhaust myself. And now maybe I should go get some rest and a little breakfast before dressing for the run. It’s getting hotter every minute. In fact, it’s really, really hot already. Hotter than hell.
I’m scared to death and fitfully excited at the same time. Napping is out of the question.
Eight—Race Day—Countdown and Report of Rascals
We have been instructed to report to the Start line one hour before the race; so at 11 I arrive. I talk to a few other runners. One woman says she did it last year and it was pure hell with temps of 118! But she is back! and hoping for a better time this year, with our relatively cooler temperature.
I learn that some pieces of human trash have actually STOLEN an entire aid station somewhere beyond mile 11; this happened in the wee hours of the morning. May these evil souls walk forever toward an aid station that never materializes, may they desiccate under an implacable sun for all eternity, and may their yellow livers be plucked out by turkey buzzards and their intestines be chewed up by coyotes.
Well, it’s finally the noon hour and Joyce gives us last-minute instructions (I think “have fun” may have been in there); the photographer takes a few group pics, and off we go up that first hill.
Nine—First Two Miles
The 5K runners were correct about that first little uphill. By the time I’ve done that first quarter-mile, I am already sweating like crazy; and I’m among the few people that rarely sweat; my sweat mechanism kicked in only after 4 years of running, well into my forties, and it only happens when I run in very hot weather.
In all the excitement I forget to take in a bit of salt, which I was told is the only way I will survive this. A volunteer picks up my Blue Dress and Alligator Hat at the top of this hellish hill. By the time I’ve adjusted my Lawrence of Arabia headdress and taken a few swigs of sports drink, I see that everyone has all but disappeared far ahead. I jog at what seems a snail’s pace, trying to rejoin the rearguard. At mile one my watch says 11:28; not bad, but too fast for my carefully planned strategy. Why are all those people going so fast already? Unconsciously I kick the pace up a bit and pass a couple of people; at mile 2, I get a pace reading of 10:27—way too fast for me for the first few miles, which I wanted to do at 12 minutes per mile. A few minutes later I realize I am completely wiped out and start walking. The thought enters my pea brain that I won’t be able to finish. More than 10 miles to go, and all I want is a cool place to lie down in! The sun is like a blowtorch. My sunglasses slide down my nose. I have to pull down my cap as close as possible to screen out the incredible glaring brightness out there. Broiling wafts rising from the pits of hell beneath me keep pulling my bandanna flaps up, the better to fry my ears. I gobble a couple of sport beans and take a few more swigs of my (now boiling hot) sports drink. Yuck. I was babbling on yesterday about the meditative solitude of the magnificent mountains, right? Forget it; all that stuff was idiotic bunk. This place is ridiculous. People who run out here are insane. This road is black and blinding at the same time, and I’ll never get to the end of it. I am alone out here. Glancing behind, I don’t even see the people I passed. Did they turn back? Are people dropping out already? The EMS vans whiz by several times. Are they carrying corpses? Omigod. The first aid station is at mile 3.1. I’ll just call it a day there and drop out. Who needs another dumb medal?
Ten—The Aid Station
By hook, by crook, by golly I somehow make it to the first aid station (cleverly situated at the top of a hill after a turn). This outpost is peopled with Angels who give out ice, pretzels, gummy bears, orange slices, T-bone steaks. The first thing I want is shade and something cold. An Angel fills my cap with ice and I stick it back on my head for instant brain cooling. I usually hate cold stuff on me, but baby, bring this one on! I get a “chill towel,” which is a kick-ass new product made of terrycloth injected somehow with natural ingredients such as menthol, aloe vera, and something citrusy. You dip it in cold water and the darn thing becomes an instant portable cooling mechanism. When the towel gets warmer, you shake it out a bit and it becomes cool again. It has a loop at one of the corners so that you can secure it around your neck. Pretty darn cool.
As my eyes adjust to the relative darkness under the canopy, I become aware that someone is hurting more than me. Ouch! One of the resident Devils has played a trick on a young woman and pulled her leg, making her stumble onto the melted asphalt and slicing her knee open on red-hot rocks. Her wound bleeds spectacularly down her leg. She’s getting bandaged and instead of asking for a stretcher seems intent on continuing. My wimpiness becomes evident to me by contrast. A gentleman runner is helping her out. By the time I’m done crunching on some pretzels and getting ice in my bottle, in my shorts, in my bra, in my cap, in my ears, the stout-hearted pair is preparing to go forward and I join them, endlessly grateful for their company. Juliet and Jess. Thank you my friends.
Eleven—The Three Musketeers (or Stooges?)
We are all three hurting and dazed, but somehow the companionship lessens the evil tremendously. We talk, we walk. We attempt jogging a bit on the downhills. Julie’s knee bleeds more profusely when she runs, and Jess is cramping. I’m feeling a little light-headed and am concentrating on staying within the line (always a problem for me to stay within the lines) lest one of the many enormous hurtling vehicles, most of them towing aircraft carriers, pulverize me. The road goes on and on forever. I am still conscious of the magnificence of the landscape, but now I see the subtext of cruelty upon which it feeds. For much of the course, we can see the amazing blue of Lake Mead, cool, glittering, and unreachable, but Julie’s experience prevents a tourist-y frame of mind. Make sure you know where your foot is going to land next. Survival comes first.
Did I mention that there is a Devil posing as a photographer on this course? He pops up everywhere, jumping out of his fossil-fueled chariot, and records our miserable moments on this patch of earth. He is having a great time, laughing, joking. We pretend, as soon as we see his evil equipment, that we are having a blast out here. So if you see pics of three cheerful companions maniacally smiling, don’t be fooled. All veneer.
We make it to aid station number 2, a mile or so before the turnaround. Julie gets bandaged up again. Now there are plenty of people crossing our path, the people who are on their way back; we’re not sure which are 50-milers (who started at 6 or 8 a.m.), which are full marathoners (who started at 10), and which are half-marathoners (who started when the friggin’ sun was at his friggin’ zenith!). Everyone looks beat but determined. The turnaround is at the top of a hill. An Angel is there with a clipboard, taking our bib numbers and jotting down our time, and he tells us we are doing awesome. We’ve been on the road for 1 hour and 40 minutes. Normally I’d be at mile 10 at this point, not 6.55.
Twelve—Vomit with a Benefit
We have stopped entertaining hopes that we might jog a bit on the way back. We do the Desert Crawl now. The heat is at its worst. Every two minutes or so a big blast of infernal heat slaps the back of my legs like a whip. Another unsupervised devil having fun with a flamethrower. I’m pretty sure the sunscreen that I generously smeared my entire body with this morning has now run off, evaporated, sublimated, or otherwise said sayonara and that my legs are just hot dogs on the grill of Hades. But I’m still feeling okay overall. We are still able to chat almost coherently.
Until we reach the last aid station. All of a sudden I feel that I have to sit or I will pass out. The Angels have chairs under the canopy, and I don’t even ask permission to collapse onto one of them.
Something bad is happening. The Devils are eating me up from inside. I feel a buzzing tingling in my limbs and especially my hands, which feel paralyzed and shaky at the same time. I am barely able to hold the cup of whatever an Angel is giving me, I swallow a little something, and then half a minute later gag-gag-gag, up comes just a little bit of liquid enhanced with the last few Fruit Punch sport beans that I ingested (a lovely pink, and you should know that some of the proceeds of the sale of these sport beans go toward the fight against breast cancer, so this puke in the desert is benefiting someone, somewhere, in an infinitesimal way).
Juliet and Jess are encouraging me to get back up and continue, only 3 more miles, only 3 more miles. But folks, spewing takes priority over anything else. I have lost my electrolytes and I’m not leaving until I get them back. I assure Juliet and Jess I'll be okay and that they must move on. Tears are shed, chill towels are waved, the trio separates at the same place where it had formed. After the upchucking I feel so much better, really. A little cola and an electrolyte pill and lots of ice and many minutes later, I feel strong enough to stand, to breathe, perchance to walk. Damn you Devil, I do want that medal!
Thirteen—The End Is in Sight
I take off, a little shaky still, but two minutes down the road I start jogging again. I see Jess and Julie in the distance. If I hurry I might catch up. Seeing them is like being pulled by a magnet, but I'm not feeling too strong right now, and so it’s on again, off again, jogging and walking until that last uphill before the finish, where I start feeling a little dizzy again and definitely settle into slow mode. I hear a runner behind me and move over to let him pass. But he stops to walk with me and asks me how I’m doing. He asks about my right arm, which I’ve wrapped with the blessed chill towel because the sun is beating down on it so hard. He tells me he won’t pass me; this close to the finish, it’s poor etiquette. I wouldn’t mind if he did. He’s a full marathoner and has been on the road nearly 6 hours; you’d think he would want to just get it done NOW. But that’s the fantastic thing about distance runners: they are incredible, wonderful people with an unsurpassed sense of solidarity. He reminds me, when we are finally within sight of the finish, that it’s all downhill now and that tradition expects that we should run it, and he won’t go in front of me, so there I go, again saved by yet another Angel. Thank you Mike!
Thirteen Point One—And the Last Shall Be the First
So I’ve made it in 3 hours, 54 minutes, and 50 seconds. Normally a sub-four is what I would want for a FULL marathon distance; but the hellish conditions of this run make this ill-conditioned Marylander proud of finishing, even though I am Dead Last in this particular race (a first for me!). But it turns out I have won my Division, first woman aged 50 to 59, by sheer virtue of Being the Entire Division. The irony is not lost on me, and when I brag about the award I’ll have to temper it with an admission of my overall standing.
There is a really neat spread of victuals for the finishers, and it’s in the SHADE. An assortment of runners are sitting or lying, eating, drinking, cooling off, reveling in that subdued manner in the “I’m done” moment. As soon as my pulse slows a bit, I grab some nourishment. Oh my God! A cookie never tasted so good! Thank you thank you thank you all you Angel volunteers and Joyce, mastermind of the operations.
Thirteen—The End Is in Sight
I take off, a little shaky still, but two minutes down the road I start jogging again. I see Jess and Julie in the distance. If I hurry I might catch up. Seeing them is like being pulled by a magnet, but I'm not feeling too strong right now, and so it’s on again, off again, jogging and walking until that last uphill before the finish, where I start feeling a little dizzy again and definitely settle into slow mode. I hear a runner behind me and move over to let him pass. But he stops to walk with me and asks me how I’m doing. He asks about my right arm, which I’ve wrapped with the blessed chill towel because the sun is beating down on it so hard. He tells me he won’t pass me; this close to the finish, it’s poor etiquette. I wouldn’t mind if he did. He’s a full marathoner and has been on the road nearly 6 hours; you’d think he would want to just get it done NOW. But that’s the fantastic thing about distance runners: they are incredible, wonderful people with an unsurpassed sense of solidarity. He reminds me, when we are finally within sight of the finish, that it’s all downhill now and that tradition expects that we should run it, and he won’t go in front of me, so there I go, again saved by yet another Angel. Thank you Mike!
Thirteen Point One—And the Last Shall Be the First
So I’ve made it in 3 hours, 54 minutes, and 50 seconds. Normally a sub-four is what I would want for a FULL marathon distance; but the hellish conditions of this run make this ill-conditioned Marylander proud of finishing, even though I am Dead Last in this particular race (a first for me!). But it turns out I have won my Division, first woman aged 50 to 59, by sheer virtue of Being the Entire Division. The irony is not lost on me, and when I brag about the award I’ll have to temper it with an admission of my overall standing.
There is a really neat spread of victuals for the finishers, and it’s in the SHADE. An assortment of runners are sitting or lying, eating, drinking, cooling off, reveling in that subdued manner in the “I’m done” moment. As soon as my pulse slows a bit, I grab some nourishment. Oh my God! A cookie never tasted so good! Thank you thank you thank you all you Angel volunteers and Joyce, mastermind of the operations.
I take off my cap, my life-saving bandanna, my sunglasses. I dip my best friend forever chill towel in the ice water cooler and towel off the grime and bask in the joy of being done. Well done.
Temperature on June 28, 2008: 112 degrees Fahrenheit; Humidity: 8%. Overall gambling winnings at the Hacienda and at Paris, Las Vegas: $40.50.
Temperature on June 28, 2008: 112 degrees Fahrenheit; Humidity: 8%. Overall gambling winnings at the Hacienda and at Paris, Las Vegas: $40.50.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Running:Training has begun for the Phoenix marathon
After the debacle of Chicago, I am gearing up for Marathon No. Nine, my 4th running of the Phoenix marathon. This is a Rock'n'Roll race, meaning that there are live bands performing all along the course. Well, not really all along, but at predetermined places, which gives you a good excuse to slow down and allow the furious heartbeats to calm a bit under the guise of enjoying the musicians. Usually the amplifiers are set at top volume, which is painful to my ears (I never did attend a rock concert and have not developed any sort of immunity against the deafening blasts), so I don't often take advantage of this opportunity to rest somewhat. Occasionally I will slow down when I'm safely out of ear-shattering-shot and adjust my pacing to the rhythm of the band. I remember a few years ago (2005) at one point late in the last few miles of the race Indians were chanting and drumming. Eerie and enchanting! At this point in any marathon (I think it was beyond mile 20) most runners are not as chatty as they were in the first 3 miles, but still here you felt the sudden hush and reverence as we passed the (non-amplified) chants of the First Americans.
Anyway, Phoenix is my favorite marathon destination so far. Maybe not because of Phoenix proper--not a bad city per se, but nothing special and lots of crawl and sprawl--but the surrounding areas, i.e., the rest of Arizona---good God, it is just plum (plumb?) gorgeous! So it is with images of Southwestern splendor that I must gird my resolve and keep up the training, pretty much on my own, through the next 3 months in the gray, cold, precipitating weather of Washingtonia. Putting this up for all to see is just another motivating trick to keep me in line.
Strategy:
- Joined a gym (FemFit) to have access to cross-training (cycling) and a treadmill for speedwork. No excuses based on the weather.
- Re-joined mcrrc, the local running club, to keep me in the loop.
- Set up my calendar of workouts, following the FIRST (Furman Institute of Running & Scientific Training) marathon training program, which is based on 3 running workouts per week: long run, speed work, and tempo.
I'm at 10 miles for my long run as of this week. Next week: 11 or 12 miles, at perfect elevens. (That means 11 minutes per mile. Not blistering speed, but then... who wants blisters?) In previous years, I usually ran at 10:30 for the long runs. My advanced age and the stress fractures I suffered last year are to blame, I suppose. Note that the DLI (donor lymphocyte infusion--a 4-hour ordeal where all my blood was processed 3 times and jillions of WBCs were removed and given to La Vampirette) that took place a couple of weeks ago did not leave me worn out at all, as had the blood donation of a year ago. Go figure.
I'm also hoping to lose the last 5 pounds that are stubbornly hanging on. How to do that and still indulge my Dark (chocolate) side?
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