Marathon #5: Red Shorts Don't Belong In The Desert

On Saturday, December, 6th 2003 I boarded a Southwest airlines flight to Tucson, AZ to run in my 5^th marathon the following Sunday, December 7^th, I was excited, but naïve.  I was in a personal state of flux; no job, living my last days in a scorched apartment, and choking under looming expectations of what this marathon was supposed to be, but somewhere inside of me, or maybe everywhere inside of me, I knew it was going to hurt.

First off there was the expensive cab ride from the airport to the host hotel, but the hotel was all I dreamt it would be, yay, worth the splurge. I was almost giggly at the race expo because for the first time I walked around with a Cheshire grin like I had the winning lottery ticket in my hand; I was well prepared for the race, calm even, and ready to blow the doors off of the desert come dawn the next morning. 

Then came dinner... I ate pasta at the Athlete Welcome Dinner.  The meal was tasty, but it had no business being in my belly the night before the most important race of my life.  Next came a near sleepless night, which would just be annoying on any other night, but detrimental this time because I needed to be up and out of my room by 4:00AM in order to board the school bus shuttle which drove us 26.2 miles into the dark desert sky toward the starting line. 

They kept us on the buses for too long. I was bouncing off the walls trying to get my fellow runners pumped up, which felt fun to me, but it might have just been obnoxious.  Oh well, I was ready to run.  I hit up the port-o-potty like usual, but my stomach was a tad more restless than usual, hmm, but I thought I was good to go and ready to tackle the day.  It was cold, and majestic, because we were literally in the middle of the desert; no spectators, just us marathoners pointed in one direction, downhill to the finish line. 

When the gun went off I shot out like a cannonball, fast, fast, fast, the miles could not go by quick enough, but something was definitely off. Initially it was my quads being crushed under my overzealous speed, and unforgiving downhill, then my stomach started to sear up like  the blur flame from a blow torch, not pleasant. I had never felt such piercing pain in my abdomen in my twenty-three years on earth, but these jabs made up for the lost time, OUCH, does not even begin to describe what I was screaming inside.  Regardless of my torture, I had to push on and move; I wanted so badly to make my splits in order to make my qualifying time of 3:40, which meant no time for pit-stops, I had to keep running. 

 When I passed the mile nine marker I knew my dream of a sub 3:40 finish was over, and my day switched from PR pursuit to survival.  My quads were bursting from the constant pounding of the “tantalizing” downhill course and my stomach was screaming at me to stop or else. However, even with straining “Superman-like” x-ray vision I could not spot another port-o-potty up ahead, so I was forced to choose plan B.  I will spare you the details, but I will say that I had to pull over on the side of the non-shaded, wide open highway, and painfully realize that choosing red shorts was not so fabulous of a decision after all. 

I had no support with me that day, and I was thankful, because I felt like a true failure, but I kept running.  I am embarrassed to admit that I was angry at the finish line.  Even though I had accomplished another huge feat of finishing a marathon in the time of 4:15, which considering my bodily breakdown was respectable, it was far from what I set out to do, and I felt like my day was ruined.  I held onto my not-so-cheery attitude through my hurried clean up routine in my room, and made sure to grab the balloons from my "pity party" for the cab ride to the airport where I called Peter to fill him in on my devastating day.  He was great as always, but it still felt like a bad dream that I wished I could wake up from.

A few hours later while sitting alone waiting for my plane to board I met a fellow marathoner who I confided in, details and all, and what he told me finally made me feel like one of the tribe, “Oh, you had G.I problems, that happens.”  That is all I needed to hear, Shit happens. 

I dozed off easily on take off knowing I had a storm of turmoil awaiting me at home, but I had faith that I would figure it out, and it was only December of 2003, I still had nine months before my deadline of qualifying for Boston, I had time, and now I had real experience to build on.  The fact was that I had just run my fifth marathon which was pretty cool, and lessons were learned.

 1.) No pasta dinners

 2.) No “downhill” courses

 3.) No quitting

Onward.

The Valley Between #4 and #5

It is fair to report that the events following my trip to Ireland were life altering, and not in a wonderful way.  Upon my arrival back home in regaled my roommate in my many adventures, and shared my hilarious travel woes with my family, but there was a lurking underneath, I was still unemployed, and I had my “A” race, the Tucson marathon as rapidly approaching. 

In the mean time, my five best friends from college, my crazy roommates, came to visit and celebrate Halloween weekend with me. It started off as hysterical as ever, but there was a disturbance in the force.  My friend Susie had gotten married the previous July, and even though we were all invited to the wedding, I was the only one she asked to be a Bridesmaid.  Gulp.  The fact is that Susie met her husband Ben days befor we began our Senior year at CU, and even through he was a great guy, and everything I could hope for Susie, she began to drift more in his direction than on the wave with my friends.  I was not innocent in that I did not feel off that Susie was spending a lot of time with Ben, and that time encroached on our precious “girl” time, but she and I dealt with it on our own and we moved on.  However, my other friends never made their peace with Susie, and when graduation came and went there went the lines of communication.  In truth is that Susie and I had always been close, and I have always considered her my best friend, but the girl code stands firm, and feelings were hurt when I was included and others were excluded.  Fast forward a few months we were all back together again doing what we did best; drinking lots of cheap beer, dressing up like attention hungry teenagers, and screaming and laughing our way through as every bar in our path.  It almost felt like the good old days  again, almost.  Then when the buzzes wore off, and the hangovers hung on, the reality of our fractured friendship blared in our bloodshot eyes to see, the past was in the past, and we were growing up, and moving on.  

The night they left for the airport while loading up my car a few of us noticed a burning ember smell in the air, but did not think much of it, and off we went on the quick drive to LAX. 

Not long after I arrived back in my apartment I was chatting with my roommate and her visiting uncle when my former boss and current neighbor came raging up our staircase and knocked on our door yelling, "Fire! Fire!”  We did not panic, but it was surreal, like the next two minutes were in complete slow motion.  My boss, Shannon, still one of my idols, grabbed my computer, even though I did not  think it was that important, and launched us out of our front door and into the safety of the street.  When I turned to see where the fire was coming from, flames were licking out of the unit above ours, our landlord’s unit, and I realized that burning smell I whiffed just an hour earlier was the start of an electrical fire in their walls.  We ended up staying at my parent’s house that night, and even though there was only water damage to our apartment, the writing was on the wall, first my roommate’s rent check bounced, and our landlord decided to take our apartment while hers was being rebuilt, so I took the opportunity to find a place of my own.  

I had lined up a short lived dream job for a few weeks, but it didn't last, which made my stress levels soar to a Mock Twelve intensity.  My parents were great, but they did not bail me out.  I just made my lean dollars last, and searched and searched for jobs, all the while running hard every day hoping that the Tucson marathon would be the light at the end of this dim tunnel and my qualifying ticket for Boston. 

Marathon #4: Running In My Homeland

 It is hard to believe at this moment in time that I ran my fourth marathon in Dublin, Ireland, but I did.  When I touched down back in LA after the San Francisco Marathon, my top priority was to find a race that was on the Boston qualifying “hot List”, AKA, flat and/or downhill.  I wanted to allow myself some time, but I did not have a whole lot of time on my hands since I had dropped the gauntlet to qualify by the time I turned twenty-five, I had about thirteen months, so when I read about the Tucson marathon being fast, I signed up right away.  Plus, it was slated for the first weekend in December, which meant I had plenty of time to prepare for the race. 

As the months ticked by I was living the SoCal dream of living in a beach house with a wonderful roommate and I had the coolest job on the planet, but as with all my jobs as a freelance Production Coordinator, once the project ended, so did my job security.  However, since I was a hip newly twenty-four year old single female with some change in my pocket and no real responsibilities, I used my newfound employment freedom to grab my board and surf the information super-highway to find out if there was amarathon in Ireland anytime soon.  Much to my delight, there was one only three weeks away!  So, I bought a cheap ticket, called in some favors from friends and family for contacts for me to stay with, and registered for the Dublin marathon which would take place on October 27^th, 2003.  I looked at it as a “long run” for my ramp up to the Tucson marathon, which was truly my “A” race, but I could not turn down this opportunity to race in my homeland.  On my last day of work, I went down to my Dad’s house to visit with Peter, and his new girlfriend, Alexa.  I had heard about Alexa for years, and I knew that she was the one for my dear, sweet, creative brother Peter.  Naturally, she and I hit it off right away, she was awesome then, and is awesome now, and undoubtedly a perfect match for Peter.  Both she and Peter thought my impromptu trip to Ireland was exciting, maybe a little nuts since I was going on my own, but they made me feel like I was a real badass, which gave me the confidence that I was making the right decision.

The day of my departure was a little off from the start.  I received a message from the airline that the flight was delayed, which I did not care too much about because it was a direct flight from LA to Dublin, and it was Wednesday, and my race was on Monday, and all I cared about was being there on the starting line.  My Dad dropped me off at LAX, and was proud that I was off on this crazy adventure, but even he thought it was a little weird that my flight was delayed.  When I found my way to my special spot in the check in line, I stayed put in that spot for many, many, minutes.  The line never moved.  Finally there was some hustling and bustling up front and then the word got back to me that the flight was cancelled, because the airline was on strike.  “Excuse me?” I thought to myself, I never in my wildest dreams thought that the airline would strike?  Come on my Irish brothers and sisters, you’re better than this??  Pretty quickly after that announcement we were told that Air France would try to accommodate us, “Vive la France!”  I was weary of the plan the attendant laid out for me, but basically they could get me to Paris, and a flight from my defunct airline should get me to Dublin, I was nervous, but I took my chances and hopped on the plane to France.

When we arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris I befriended a family who was looking for the Irish airline as well, but when we went to the ticket counter, it was a ghost town.  Suddenly, my iron-clad shield of adventure cracked and I felt panic wash over me, how was I going to get to Dublin?  I left my new found friends who had a plan of their own to risk, while I headed back to the main terminal to plead with my friends at Air France. Now, I did take two years of French in high school, but I am no polyglot, so when I finally made it to the front of the line to talk with the agent I felt like there an Atlantic ocean sized language gap between us.  She said that there was one flight I could take, but I would have to pay for the only seat left which was in Business class. I almost burst out laughing because that ticket would put a crater in my stalled bank account, so I stepped away from the counter, and walked outside to the main terminal to call my Dad.  He told me that I needed to “figure it out”, so with a renewed strength in my belly I decided to go to another Air France station and pleaded with my heart and soul, but no tears, my plight and this amazing French angel listened intently to my every word, then called numerous people on her spiffy non-numbered phone, but her herculean efforts were not looking good, so I was heading back to pay my life savings for the business flight when she ran me down, pulled my right arm back in a very Truffaut fashion and said that she got me on a flight!  I hugged her inappropriatelywith all of my 5’10.5 frame as she laughed out loud in victory, but there was no time to celebrate, I had to run to the gate right at that instant in order to make the flight!  It will come to no surprise that my bags did not make the flight, but I still slept as hard and soundly as ever that night in my hostel, kudos to my step mom slipping me some Tylenal PM:)

The next few days were wonderful as I discovered Dublin by foot, and shared in some amazing family time with my sister in law’s good friend Wendy and her family in the nearby quaint town of Greysones.  Next, I was back in Dublin where I was treated to a play, and a trip to Sugarloaf Mountain in the town of Glendalough in the Irish countryside with my step mother’s good friend’s sister in law, an Irish judge, named Mary Ellen. It was an extremely action-packed day, but luckily we made it back to Dublin in the nick of time for me to register at the Expo, then she dropped me off at my hostel, and I was left with only one noisy night left in a hostel before I finally toed the line on Monday morning for the marathon. I woke up excited, but serene, I think it was because this was a “bonus” race for me, so I did not put too many expectations on myself; I was just there in my homeland of Ireland to explore the city the best way possible, in running shoes along with thousands of new friends.  

The air was cool, so I was happy I chose to run in a white and green long-sleeved dry fit shirt, wise decision, but the sun was out and smiling, so I felt comfortable from the start.  I did not find my place in the crowd until after I made a pit stop, and rounded a few turns but then I settled into a nice groove.  When I cruised through mile ten I met my hero, her name was Greta, she was 60 years old, and this was her 35th marathon! I was so inspired, I gasped “I want to be you when I grow up!”  Then I was in hyper speed and zoomed past many other runners and found a gear I never felt before.  I knew that I was pushing myself further than I had before, which was great, but painful.  The miles ticked by, the crowd got louder and louder, I was nearing my red line, but the numbers on my watch were like gummy bear juice, I was well under my PR pace, so I had to keep pushing.  The last few miles were a blur, but our path narrowed as the crowds creeped in as we weaved through the final shoot toward the finish line and as I glanced once, twice, and may be once more to realize I had done it, I ran 4 minutes faster than San Francisco, finishing in 3:51!!  I leaped across the finish line like a scene out of Riverdance, and screamed with glee, and smiled from ear to ear in satisfaction and disbelief, I really surprised myself, it was an amazing moment in time. I now knew Boston qualifying would be in reach in Tucson, but in the mean time I was going to soak in as much of Ireland as I could, I was not ready to go home yet.

After I showered and called my family from the hostel to report the amazing news, I set off on my last walk-a-bout around the city, and enjoyed my well-deserved post-race Guinness at the bar Temple Bar, in Temple Bar, which is a super hip part of Dublin.  Later, Mary Ellen picked me up and took me to dinner and to see a movie called Intermission, it was really fun, and exactly what I needed to cap off my day, and my whole Irish experience.  I really felt at home in Ireland, even though I could not have been more alone when set foot in the country, but between meeting Wendy, Mary Ellen, and all of the strangers I met on the streets, I felt a part of it all, and promised to bring that Irish spirit back home with me. 

I still get chills thinking about that trip to Ireland, nearly ten years later, it was by far the biggest risk and reward I had ever experienced in my life.  I knew that I would be a life-long marathoner after meeting Greta, and that it was okay, there were others in the world just like me.  I hope to go back to Ireland someday soon, but in the mean time my Irish eyes will always be smiling while running  a marathon.

Smack in the Middle of Race Week

This is race week, and come Saturday morning I will be firing up my Mini Cooper Clubman and heading down the California coast to toe the line at the ridiculous hour of 5:30AM on Sunday morning for the Orange County marathon.  Clearly, this is not my first rodeo, and every race week I am constantly referring back to previous work out logs to mimic what I did the previous race week, listening to every creak my body makes while running, driving, sleeping, eating, etc., not drinking any alcohol, and asking myself to dig deep and give everything I have on race day.  The most important aspect of race week, and I cannot emphasize this enough, is eating pancakes for dinner on Saturday night.  Yes, pancakes.

I cannot take credit for the idea, I read it in one my numerous endurance periodicals in early 2010, but pancakes are a marvelous carbohydrate packed meal that is much easier on the stomach than the “go to” mountain of pasta always touted as the almighty pre-race meal.  I NEVER what to eat any strange sauce the night before a marathon…. That is literally a recipe for disaster.  However, pancakes are nearly identical to pasta, they are basically flour and water, but since I am a vegetarian, I have lately swapped out the eggs for bananas, and add in some almonds for extra protein.  Also, I do not add any syrup.  This is not for any health benefit, even though I am sure the sugar bomb of syrup would do a number on my tum-tum during the race, I have never liked syrup with pancakes, so why start now?

The race prep gets interesting when travel is involved.  As I mentioned, the start time is REALLY early, so I will be staying in a hotel the night before, fun, yes, but not every city has a Denny’s, most do of course, but just in case, I will be making my pancakes just how I like them on Saturday morning, and packing them with me in order to enjoy an early “breakfast for dinner” feast no later than 6PM. I have found this time frame allows for sufficient digestion and a fighting chance for quality sleep, which never really happens, but I aim to give myself the best shot I can.

When Sunday morning rolls around I will be up at 4:00AM, brewing coffee and eating a bagel alone in my hotel room watching some sort of local news show, or VH1 if they have it:), a 90's girl can dream.  Once my car is parked, and I am among my fellow runners, my giggling smile will be broad and eyes bright, because I will be with my people in my favorite place awaiting the hours of pain and splendor ahead of us; the fast ones, the slow ones, the newbies, and the Maniacs, off we go together for a 26.2 mile run.