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.

Marathon #3: Why I am the Luckiest Little Sister On Earth

I ran my third marathon on July 27^th, 2003 in San Francisco California. I was beyond thrilled when my brother Peter asked if I wanted to run it with him, because I had spent the last few months after the LA marathon in a blissful haze about what to do next, so when Peter called, I jumped at the chance to run marathon #3 with my big bro.

The coolest part about running a marathon in San Francisco was that I would be hanging out the with the ”OG” Ironman crowd, our cousin Patrick, Peter’s friends and roommates, and the original marathoner in my life, my oldest brother Tim.  I absolutely revere Tim; he is the oldest of all four of us Kelly kids, seven years older than me, and the first hero in my life.  Tim had to grow up very fast due to our parent’s divorce. He became “the man of the house” at only fifteen when we moved  from Palos Verdes to Claremont.  Tim had just finished his freshman year of high school where he ran cross country and track, and the only upside to the move was that the cross country season started in the summer, so he was able to join the team and start the year off with a few new friends.  I was only eight years old at the time, so I don’t remember too much about what Tim was going through, but I know that he was a very good student, he was a good runner, and even though he was mature beyond his years, he was the first to burst out laughing when I made a joke at the dinner table, which made my young, tom-boy self-esteem fly through the roof.  Between my two brothers, Tim was the mature one, and Peter was the goofy one, which is a priceless combination for a little sister like me.  Even with different personalities, Peter followed in Tim’s footsteps by running cross country in high school, and guess who followed suit a few years later?  I will always cherish the time I had running on the cross country team as a freshman, when Peter was a senior, team captain, and the fastest runner on the team.  Luckily, I was pretty quick that year too, so I don’t think I embarrassed him too much:)  

Tim rowed crew in college, but soon after he graduated he started running marathons. “What?”  That is what everyone in my family thought, because the size of a marathon was too huge to wrap our heads around.  However, Tim was always up for challenge, so it was no surprise that he not only ran four marathons, but ran them fast!  I think his fastest time was a little over 3 hours, which is smokin’.  Unfortunately, he ran his last two races only three weeks apart, and his knees have never been the same.  Nevertheless, the night before my first marathon the only person I wanted to talk to was Tim, and I’ll never forget the priceless advice he gave me, “Just take your time in the beginning, you don’t want to go out too fast, it is a long race.”  I remember taking those words in as my doctrine because Tim’s words were golden for me; he was both my big brother, and my marathon guru.

The night before our race in San Francisco Peter’s friends came over to pump us up, and I was confident because I had a bit of experience under my belt, no matter how many times you do it, 26.2 miles is a long way to go, and both Peter and I were pretty nervous.  In fact, I had one of those “oops, I missed the alarm!” dreams that night, so when the real alarm went off early in the AM, I felt like I had already survived the toughest part of the day.  The car ride to the race was hysterical, Peter and I laughed the whole way there, and before I knew it the gun went off, and Peter disappeared in the crowd in front of me. I loved the early part of the race because we ran through the Embarcadero, along the water, and up into the trees of Pacific Heights, then up down, and around the many hills of San Francisco.  I felt okay, not too good, not too bad, until I hit the out and back strip of strand around mile 13, I saw Peter again ahead of me at the turn around, and noticed that he was feelin’ it, too, when he yelled in a joking, but strained voice, “We’re running a marathon, huh?”  

My spirits picked up when we ran out of Golden Gate park down Haight Street and right by Peter’s apartment because his friends were out front cheering for me, and I wanted to make them proud, so I picked up my pace, and charged down the hill.  The next few miles looped us in around a part of the city I never want to see again.  There were no trees, barely any crowd, but plenty of Reservoir Dogs-esque warehouses that made me feel isolated, and annoyed.  When I came up to the mile 23 marker I was genuinely upset, I was sick of running, and just ready for the race to be over, then I saw a hint of the promised land, AT&T park, AKA Giants Stadium.  I knew the finish line was close, and with the help of a smattering of fans along the parking lot I cruised through the last mile or so, and into the rousing finish line where I noticed a J. Crew model type cheering his head off and yelling my name, and when my exhaustion cleared, my tears formed, because my ultimate fan was Tim!  I had never seen Tim so excited, he kept saying that I should really be proud of myself because I ran under four hours, and “only real runners go under four hours.”  Peter finished strong, but he was beat, he developed respect, but no love for the marathon that day. Meanwhile, I was in little sister heaven standing at the finish line in between Peter and Tim, it felt amazing that we now shared the bond of the marathon.

The following morning I went on a little recovery run and the wheels started turning in my head as I repeated Tim’s words over and over about the finishing under four hours, and I started thinking about the qualifying times for the Boston marathon.  I was 23, so I would need to hit 3:40 or below, yikes, 15 mins., but why not?  I had lopped off 30min. from my first marathon time, so what was another 15min.?  I decided then and there that my goal was to qualify for Boston by the time I turned 25; I had just over a year to do it, but if Tim thought I was a real runner, then I needed to prove it.

My Thoughts On Boston

It is hard to put into words what I am feeling right now.  The past 48 hours have been a shock to the world of marathon running because of the fatal bombings at the premiere marathon in the world, Boston.  The Boston marathon is the ultimate achievement in marathon racing for mortals like me.  The history of the race is what runners drool over, it starts in a town called Hopkinton, exactly 26.2 miles outside of downtown Boston.  That’s right, it is a point to point race, but the crowd support is unbelievable from start to finish.  For example, even on the two lane highway of route 135 from Hopkinton to through the town of Framingham the streets are ten people deep, no joke!   However, the mile or so stretch that gave me goose bumps, and frankly turned me on, was the thunderous, roar of the coeds at Wellesley College around mile 13.  The girls call out like Sirens, screaming with pride and enthusiasm that is euphoric, and makes you feel like a Super hero, which honestly all of us runners are on “Marathon Monday”. 

I ran the Boston marathon on April 18^th, 2005.  I will go into great detail about what I went through in order to make it to the starting line, but a little hint is that it was my 8th marathon, so stay tuned for those future posts:) That said, I wanted to share a few of the wonderful memories I experienced in Boston for marathon weekend.  The most important part of the weekend was that I had a HUGE crowd of supporters who flew in from near and far to cheer me on, and we all know that the strength and success of runners is directly linked to their support team.  My then boyfriend, now husband Marion was with me, my brother Peter and his newly fianceed fiancé Alexa shared a hotel room with us, four of my best  girlfriends from college came out from Denver, including thee Hillary Jackson, my Dad and step mother Sally made the jaunt from lovely Los Angeles, and my friend Jonathan made a special trip from Chicago to cheer me on.  I was still stunned and amazed to have qualified for the marathon, and beyond thrilled that so many dear people in my life took time out of their lives to share this special day with me.

After hearing about the bombings on Monday I could not help but remember my race in Boston. I finished in 4:11, and the bombs went off at 4:09, and none of my family and friends made it to the finish line because they were stuck in the train from their last spectating spot on “Heartbreak Hill,” missing my finish completely. I remember straining my exhausted eyeballs looking for them when I made the left turn from Beacon St. to Boylston, and waiting for what felt like an eternity in the “Family Meeting” area to be reunited with my motely crew, but that frustration would have been a miracle for us all this year.  I can not wrap my head around the fear, confusion, pain, and sadness that the victims experienced after the bombings.  The finish line is already a nucleus of emotions, and the epicenter of both mental and physical limits, that to add on the horror of the bombings must have been a nightmare.  It has been difficult to watch the never-ending coverage on the news, because us runners are a peaceful people, and our family and friends sacrifice so much for our passion/obsession through out the training process for the marathon that the race itself is the cherry on top of the Sunday for all involved, and to have such a joyous occasion be destroyed by such an ignorant, and gruesome act makes me sick.  I pray every moment for all involved, the victims, the first responders, the runners, the spectators, they are true heroes. 

I have already qualified for the 118^th  Boston marathon, and will be running it on April 21st, 2014.   I am excited and honored to once again be able to run the race, but even more so I am looking forward to running it in solidarity with my fellow runners and celebrating that magnificent spirit of the Bostonians who welcome us to their city for “Marathon Monday”. 

Marathon #2: My Version of a Love Letter To Los Angeles

 

The second time I raced a marathon was about a marathon distance from my first, at least it felt like it.  I had been working consistently as a Production Assistant and sufficiently surviving on my own, AKA my hip studio pad in Venice Beach was indeed the bees knees, and I was loving being an independent woman.  The catalyst for signing up for my second marathon was because my TV show/stable job was  canceled, and after spending many numerous hours over the days and nights in downtown Los Angeles I wanted to run all over it during the LA marathon.  My show, “Haunted”, ended in early December 2002, the race was slated for early the following March in 2003, so I had about twelve weeks to whip myself back into marathon shape.  Fortunatley, I was not unemployed for long, I had another grueling 12 plus hour a  day job lined up by early January, which meant “yay I can eat, but yikes, when and I am going to train?”  I will tell you when, before work, 6-7AM, and after work, 8-10PM.  I tended to have plenty of time for my after work/late night runs because besides work and my family, running was my life, yeah, no male suitors were banging down my door at the time. Actually, that is not entirely true, there was one very nice fellow, but he did not give me the” warmies” like I had hoped, so to the curb he was soon kicked.

Night after night, from January to March, I ran loops around track home neighborhoods in Santa Clarita, CA.  I sometimes ran in the rain, and always ran on exhausted legs that I had been standing on all day, but none of that mattered because I had to train properly for the race,  and give it the respect it deserved, which I think was lacking on the first go-around. 

The morning of the race was LA sunny, but cold.  I was decked out in my white on white dry fit gear, Eminem blasting in my car stereo during the nervous nauseating drive on the 10 freeway from Venice  to downtown Los Angeles.  As I walked from my car toward the starting line I felt the ease of “my calling” calm my nerves; I was ready, and right where I was meant to be, on the starting line of another marathon.  This time around, I was fueled with my blood, sweat and tears that I had bared all over Los Angeles in my first year of a working in Production, this race would be my swan song to the great city I loved, and I was ready to trounce the streets.  As the final minutes ticked by I started to stretch a bit, and mill around the crowd of over 10,000 fellow runners, when suddenly my heart skipped a beat, I saw her, my hero of all heroes sitting among the dignitaries at the starting line, Jackie Joyner-Kersee.  I was a hurdler and both a long and high jumper in high school during the mid-nineties when she was at her peak, I even had a poster of her on my bedroom wall, so to see her in real-life just feet away from me was a genuine thrill, and provided a giant shot of adrenaline that I needed just as the gun went off. 

 

The marathon course present day is a magnificent tour of Los Angeles “ point to point” race course starting at Dodger stadium, and ending just above the ocean in Santa Monica.  I would love to run that course some day, but in 2003, the course was a meandering path through south central and the east side of Beverly Hills, in essence we ran through neighborhoods that I would never drive my car through day or night, however, the support from the crowds was electric.

 I discovered early on in this race that I am not a fan of very large races, because having to fight for position in the sea of runners is not very pleasant.  I felt comfortable during the first 7 miles, I did not pay attention to my pace because I just wanted to finish under my previous time of 4:24, and I did not want to bonk by going out too hard, too quickly.  Once I passed the 10 mile marker I started to settle in, and realize that, yes, I was indeed going long today… I still had 16 miles to go! 

There was a short hill just after mile 15, but then it was flat for the next 5 miles as we cruised through Miracle Mile on Mid Wilshire, a very historical area where museums and entertainment guild buildings line the streets, and volunteers are excited and abundant. For example, one volunteer was running backwards making me chase him for an energy gel, he may have thought this was motivating, but I just thought it was annoying.  Nevertheless, I was passing people and feeling good; then I saw a glimpse into my future.  There was a petite woman cruising by me with an Ironman California 70.3 hat on, I zeroed in that MDot, and chased her down for dinner.  I knew what a privilege and honor it was to wear the MDot gear, because that cemented one’s legitimacy as an Ironman, which in my mind was at the highest level of the endurance food chain.  I passed her around mile 22, and continued on the long, leg searing slight uphill of Olympic Blvd. which continued until mile 26, when we took a sharp left onto Flower St. and thundered up the home stretch to the finish line.  Yes, the last 6 miles were up hill.     

 

Once again my heart was beating in my throat over the final 100 feet of the race, I had crushed my previous time by 13 minutes, and again felt like I could spring to the top of the skyscrapers towering over all of us, it was magic.  When I was driving home on the freeway talking with my uber-runner best friend Hadara, downloading her the deets, (we could talk on cell phones back then while driving), I was serene and not exhausted, which felt like a sign that this would certainly not be my last marathon, but that I was already looking forward to training and racing for #3.

Best Week Ever

 

There is no way of sugar-coating it, I am a full on Triathlon GEEK!  Ever since my brother and his friends started racing triathlon I have been following the “who’s who” of the professional triathlon world.  However, my interest/obsession really kicked into high gear once I started training and racing in triathlon myself.  Naturally, I was more interested in the female triathletes then the men, as I saw them as my role models, and honestly what I hoped I could become one day myself.  Well, cut to early 2008 when I was already signed up for my first Ironman, and chugging the Triathlon Kool Aid, I came across a female pro named Hillary Biscay.  That name sounded very familiar, like I knew her somehow, and when I looked her up I discovered that she was in fact from my home town of Palos Verdes,  very cool.  Even though we had an iron-clad hometown connection, I did not really know her all that well, because since my parent's divorce, I only visited PV on the weekends.  Nevertheless, when I asked about Hillary to the social media director of Palos Verdes, my Step mother, Sally, she told me that Hillary was wonderful, and that she tutored my younger brother Bo when he was in high school studying for the SAT’s; which I took as even more of a reason to cheer Hillary on when she raced ironmans all over the world!

A couple of months before my first Ironman in 2008, I mustered up the courage to email her, and as cheesy as the email was I’m sure, she actually wrote me back.  This back and forth went on a couple times a year for the next year or so, until I finally decided to go all-out and hire her as my coach for the 2010 season.  That was a HUGE year for me, I improved in the swim, bike, and run, and finished off the year crossing the finish line at Ironman Arizona to an ecstatic coach and friend waving her arms at me with genuine glee splashed across her face, it was amazing. 

The last few years we have continued to stay in touch, even though she is not my official coach anymore, I still apply everything Hillary taught me to my training philosophy for both marathons and triathlons, even if it is done by afar.  Then again, sometimes in life one  needs to snatch an opportunity that may only come by once in a lifetime, and over the last five days I have been living the dream.  Hillary and her husband, Maik Twelsiek, a phenomenal triathlete himself, put on a training camp for 5 days in their home town of Tucson, AZ, which for like-minded folk like me, is like Heaven in the desert.  After much thought, and discussions with my husband, I decided that I would make the leap to leave town, and my family, in order to train along side the best of the best in the triathlon universe, so off to the desert I went!  I swam more, rode my bike more, and ran more than I have all year, but each work out was fun, tough, and rewarding.  I met amazing people from all over the country, who just like me, think Hillary is an incredible triathlete, and a true role model for all of us wanting to push ourselves to the limit, and beyond. 

For more details about the training camp, and amazingness in triathlon and life in general, check out Hillary's blog, www.hillarybiscay.com

Marathon #1

About a week before my first marathon I was dressed in my Titanica costume putting on a spectacle for many of my friends as my roommates and I hosted another evening of G.L.O.W, (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling).  If you are a child of the 80’s you know exactly what this is, and I am proud to say that we represented loud and proud every time we suited up and took it to the living it to the living room floor.  My alter-ego was named Titanica, because I had a real obsession with that film, I saw it 9 times in the theater, and my tag line was, “Your heart won’t go on.”  I had graduated from CU about 3 weeks prior and was knee deep in my post graduate identity crisis of still living like a college student, but only weeks away from moving back home to Los Angeles to start my career in the entertainment industry. I was still living with my roommates in our dilapidated apartment, hustling at the local Dairy Queen, and training for my first marathon.   Luckily, my brother Peter was visiting and my crazy friends who had all fallen in love with him at one point or another through out the last 4 years, and would be driving back home to southern California with me to cheer me on for my race.  I was nervous for the marathon for many reasons, most of which was the unknown.  My longest training run was 19 miles, which is still 7 miles shorter than the 26.2 I would be running on race day, but I chose to take the “ignorance is bliss” approach, hence the weekend before “party time” with my friends.  However, a funny thing happened on the way to the starting line, I found my tribe.  Runners stretching in the grass, fidgeting in the Port-o-Potty line, and clapping in the starting line corrals, I felt connected to all of them, and honored to be among them.

When the gun went off, and the miles started to tick away, I never thought that I couldn’t do it; I just couldn’t believe that I was doing it.  I hooked up with a female runner a few years older than me at about mile 7, she was nice, but I ditched her when she said, “At this pace we should finish in about 5 hours.”   Yeah, no, I was aiming for under 4:45, so I sped up and disappeared into the crowd. 

 The race took place in San Diego, which is home to one of the largest Marine bases in the country, Camp Pendleton, and lucky for us runners, hundreds of Marines lined the streets to volunteer and cheer us on.  The most powerful image I remember was of a ripped, middle-aged Marine screaming at us, “Pain is weakness leaving your body!”  I felt honored to be among his presence, and unworthy that I was merely running a marathon compared to the real sacrifice he committed to by becoming a Marine, so I promised myself that I would never allow myself to succumb to fatigue during the race, instead I would use it as fuel to push me harder through the dark moments, I owed him that much at the very least.

I did veer off into “Lonely town” at the half-way mark, mile 13.1, where the course narrowed to a two lane bike path, both the runners and spectators had thinned, and I was forced to have a real conversation with myself.  I was not feeling tired, but rather an overwhelming sadness, because the single goal that I had been training for over the last six months was suddenly half-way over.  Then I realized that I needed to drink it all in, because it would be over soon, along with so much else; college, living with my best friends, and living in Colorado, but in that moment, running on exhausted legs, I felt ready for what was coming next.  It was like this race was a bridge from my adolescence, and of dependency, to becoming an adult, and making my life whatever I wanted it to be.

At about mile 22 I heard frantic shouting from a distance; it was Peter running out of Carl’s Jr. with a plastic order number in his hand, cheering me on, and yelling that my pace was faster than he thought, hence his assumption he had enough time to eat. Many of my fellow runners around me fed off of his energy too, as he promised to meet me at the finish line.  The last half mile of the course loops around an air base, and the finish line is hidden until you round a right corner, run under a tunnel, and miraculously it is a few hundred feet in front of you.  As I chased down those last few steps of the race I felt super human, like after running a marathon there was nothing I could not accomplish.  I had crossed the bridge, and was ready to truly start my life.

 

 

Where it all started

 

The first marathon I ran was in June of 2001, only weeks after I graduated from college.   One of  my best friends and former college roommate asked me recently what made me start running marathons, because she remembers me not being much of a runner at all in college.  I was a bit taken aback by that question, because I have always considered myself to be a runner; I finished my first 10K in the 7^th grade, then went on to a decent cross country and track and field career in high school, but then I remembered my liquid priorities in college, and even though I did run fairly often, and worked out at the gym, I was far from what I once was, and light years away from what I would become.  Still, the reason I started running marathons was because of my friend Hillary Jackson. 

Hillary was another one of our roommates, and one of my best friends.  Since the moment I met her in our freshman dorm she was a strong, and consistent runner, but stepping up to the marathon was a big deal even for her, and she handled it with the respect it deserved.  She never missed her long runs, or all of the mini ones in between, and was ready to roll on race day.  Sadly, I was not. 

It was cold, and drizzly on race morning, as all of my roommates piled into the car partially asleep and still slightly drunk from the night before as we roared the engine, and headed to Denver. When we parked at our first spectating spot and saw Hill run past us screaming with glee per usual, and flailing her arms at us which we high fived with pride, something clicked inside of me as adrenaline flushed through my body nearly pushing out the toxins from the night before, but not quite.  The rest of the morning was a bit foggy as I was battling the worst hangover of my young 21 year old life, but watching and cheering for Hillary, drenched, I vowed to run a marathon one day, too.  Hillary was pretty sore, and sluggish the next couple of days, but still a walking inspiration, err running inspiration for me.  Thanks, Hill.