#18 - Santa Barbara

In early December, 2009, only two short months after my seventeenth marathon in Long beach I toed the line for at the inaugural marathon in Santa Barbara, California. I was excited about the race because I love that area of our Golden State, it is scenic, rich in history, next to the ocean, and just a two hour drive north from my house.  I went into it with the mind set of, “just enjoy the day”, because anything would be better than Long Beach.  However, as the weekend approached I felt suffocated by guilt of having to flee Hannah’s playoff soccer game early that Saturday in order to high tail it north in time to check in for the race, because I was told there was “no race day” check in.  Hannah’s team was not amazing, they probably would not win this game, but I was the team parent, and had never missed one of her practices let alone a game all season.  I felt like I was not only abandoning her, but her fellow players, and their parents who looked to me for guidance for when to bring snacks, and what time to wake their kids up for games each week, etc.  I walked off the field with a heavy heart before the whistle blew and drove as fast as the law allowed to make the cut off time to pick up my bib. 

 The jolly 4AM bus ride to the starting line was straight up the 101 to an elementary school where they dropped us off and loaded us in to a multi-purpose room of sorts to sit and wait for nearly two hours until the race started at 7AM.  I did not mind the cattle pin like enclosure because it was freezing outside, and my cold threshold is fragile at best.  I chatted up a newbie marathoner who was racing her first marathon, my favorite, fresh meat.  I tried my best to both excite and calm her nerves for the big day she had ahead of her, but soon enough we were both on our feet and stepping outside to get our last potty stop and stretches in before the start. 

The sun was gently peeking out above the mountains to our backs when the gun fired and we were off!  The pace was fast, too fast, but I went with the flow the first few miles, then settled into more mortal like pace between miles five and six.  We were running directly into the sun for the first ten miles which was comfy and warm, but a tad blinding, still it made sense because this was virtually a point to point race, remember the bus ride earlier?  However, I am partial to loops, just ask Marion, I am famous or infamous for the “loop” training courses I have devised for myself for both run and bike training, so my brain was a little frazzled that I would be running in one direction for the majority of the marathon.  Nevertheless, I felt good, and just aimed for a solid, steady race.

All was right with the world until we entered into a beautiful and quaint neighborhood just past mile fifteen.  I took in water and electrolytes at the aid station, but I was feeling lightheaded and somber, and slowed to a barely jogging pace to take stock in what was going on.  I felt alone, and overwhelmed with guilt that I had left Hannah’s game early to come run this race by myself among thousands of strangers; I questioned my crazed level of selfishness, and started to get angry.  Suddenly, I heard Marion’s voice in my head screaming at me to “GO!” and make he and Hannah proud, so I picked up my feet from their self-loathing trot and started to run.

I was going in and out of feeling strong and slow through out the bulk of the miles, but I never felt a long stretch of amazing.  I just couldn't shift into the "kick ass" gear I needed to run faster.  I was enjoying the course, my pace was quicker than Long Beach, thankfully, but I was still unsatisfied, something was off.

The "you've got to be kidding me?" part of the day was when I turned left and stared straight into the bottom of a long climb to reach mile twenty four, brutal.  **I have a quick note to all you race directors and/or prospective race directors, please do not place the largest hill on your courses at mile twenty four, it is both cruel and a PR crusher, thank you.  I “ran” up the hill and down the other side to make another left turn along the ocean toward the finish line.  I was surrounded my happy runners and ecstatic spectators, but I drowned out their positivity and only heard the slow thump of my broken heart as I crossed the line in 3:55.  The look on my face and posture said it all; I was disappointed and confused with my performance.

While licking my wounds on the drive home down the coast I decided I needed a break from stand alone marathons, and shift my concentration solely to triathlon.

 

#17 - Long Beach.... Again

I ran my 17^th marathon in Long Beach again, for the third time, and it was not pretty.  I signed up for Long Beach because after Vineman I was ravenous for all things “becoming a professional triathlete,”  I had no idea what I was doing, but I figured racing another marathon was a good bet to help my cause. In hindsight, this was a naive decision.  I started the race off at a quick pace with my fellow quasi-speedsters so I did not have to pinball around as much like I did on my last go around on this course, however, I had a chip on my shoulder, and was feeling  little cocky, which would come back to haunt me later in the day.  I was by no means aware of how to run a  fast marathon at this point in my athletic career, but I thought I should be better than a lot of my fellow runners because of the two ironmans I had in the can, but I was putting the cart before the horse, and not taking my time to build on what I had spent years creating, I wanted too much too soon, and this race was the slap in the face wake-up call I needed to move forward in the right direction. 

 

I experienced some stomach troubles around mile ten, which threw my pace and psyche into a tailspin, but I regained my focus and resolve once the crowd thinned out around mile twelve.  I started to feel great after dousing my head and face with water at the mile fourteen aid station when the riff raff of the half marathoners were finally out of our way, and I could  get down to business. The crowd support is always constant and excited along the streets of Long Beach in early October; I can never get enough of the Rocky anthem thundering out of a ghetto blaster every other driveway. Unfortunately, my mind started to wane and energy deplete around mile sixteen, just before we entered the Long Beach State campus, which was exasperating and annoying because I wanted to get myself together to look good in front of the coeds.  It had been a quite some time since I was in college, but for some reason I felt like I was still one of them.  Thankfully my ego took over and my cadence quickened after mile seventeen, and I started to pick off a few runners, but once I cleared mile twenty I could not feel my legs.

My time was not impressive, but I still felt like I could hold on and finish fairly strong, not a PR, but respectable.  Nope.  I carried on through each aid station pouring water over my head and into my gullet, and slurping down a gel or two, but I was simply out of reach of myself.  I was humbled, and disappointed, but kept going.  Once again I smiled at the mile twenty three marker because sooner rather than later this race would be over, but I was far, far away from where I thought I was when I started this race, and light years away from where I wanted to be. Pros do not run marathons in over four hours. 

I rounded the last corner on down toward the finish shoot, one of my all time favorites of any marathon, and a definite high light of this course. I was bummed to see the clock read 4:09 as I crossed the line, yikes. I walked swiftly through the recovery area in frustration, and despair, but as I looked around at people still running in, lots of people, I realized I had done a lot that morning, I should be proud, I just ran my seventeenth marathon for goodness sake!  So, I decided, “today I celebrate, tomorrow I plan.”

Marathon #16 - Vineman, 2009

I am a triathlete, and a large part of being a triathlete is transitioning from swim gear, to bike gear, and then to run gear, etc., but I am not very speedy with my transitions, and can easily admit that they are not my strong suit.  However, they are inevitable, the race is a “Tri”athlon, meaning three sports disciplines in one, so whether I like it or not, I have to go through transitions.  Currently, I am in a real life transition, and I like it just a little bit less than T1 and T2 on an Ironman course, but the finish line is on the other side, so I have to go through it.

This post will be celebrating my sixteenth marathon, and second ironman, Vineman 2009.  This race takes place near Sonoma in northern California, a good seven hour drive from my house, but still considered a “local” race in my mind because it lies within the boundaries of the Golden state.  I rented a house for a week along the Russian River for the whole Spates family to descend upon and have a real vacation.  There was fishing and canoe paddling for Marion and Hannah, and stress and worry for me in a beautiful place.  We arrived on a Tuesday, the race was the following Saturday, gulp.  My brother Peter came up the Friday night before the race to amp me up, while most of my extended family arrived on race day to cheer me on.  The swim and bike were beautiful, hard, bumpy, and foggy, but the real juice of the day was squeezed from the marathon, so here we go.

 

I rolled into the transition area from the 112 mile bike portion of the race both naive and excited about the marathon up ahead.  I had only the bar set at Ironman Louisville to hit or dip below, and I had already slashed a lot of time, so I started the run stress free.  Except for the lead logs below my waist, I felt awesome.  Luckily, I had a tremendous support team for this race, and they were stationed right where I needed them, near the “Run in and out” portion of the three loop course, so I would be seeing them six times throughout the day which was like tackling the leprechaun with the pot of gold. 

 

The course travels up and around the farmland of Windsor, California where many locals lined the streets along with their horses and cows to cheer us on.  The course was flanked with trees along the difficult hilly sections, and wide open to sunshine during the character building straight away section leading up to the turn-a-round point.  I had no idea where I ranked among the masses that were trodding along with me, but I felt good considering it was 2:30 in the afternoon and I was just starting out on a marathon.  I noticed many men, and not very many women, which is par for the course for triathlon, but somewhat annoying; come on ladies, let’s rally and build up our numbers!  Anyway, I am certain my pace was not swift, but I was happy all day long.  I was so thrilled to have so much family cheering me on, that I just wanted to finish as quickly as possible to spend time with them.  I did add on some time because of necessary pit stops three or four times throughout the day, but since this was only my second ironman, I was still learning a lot from my hard-working bod on race day, and was giving her the attention she required. 

I cherish this race because it was the end of my innocence as a triathlete, because after I crossed the finish line with a forty four minute personal best over my time at Louisville, I was flooded with delusional dreams of becoming one of the elite.  My family did not aid in bringing me down to earth at all, they were so proud of me, and boosted my ego to the heavens. We all celebrated an evening of pure bliss back at our rental fueled by pizza, beer, and ice cream.

Marion, Hannah, and our dogs loaded up our truck and headed home that following Monday.  It was a lovely, but a knawing eight hour drive down the coast as I planned and plotted my next race, and training plans.  I had crossed over from spirited athlete, to obsessed goal setter.  All I could think about was what I needed to do to qualify for Kona, what race I should sign up for, how much I should train, etc.  Miraculously, Hannah slept through my crazed jabberings most of the trip, but Marion listened and just lent fuel to fire, professing there was no reason I could not become a pro, in fact there should be no excuse why I shouldn’t, and challenged me to go for it.

 

Marathon #15 - Palos Verdes Swan Song

‘Twas May of 2009, and once again I lined up at Point Ferman Park in San Pedro to trounce the hills of Palos Verdes.  The race was super small that year because the LA marathon was being held over Memorial Day, so my guess is most runners were saving their legs for later in the month.  Personally, I love every opportunity I have to run in PV, especially if there was a marathon attached, so I did not want to miss it.  In hindsight, I am glad that I did run this race because they stopped putting on the FULL marathon a couple years later, which is tragic, but true. 

The day started off on a bright note because I snagged a sweet parking spot, a priceless feat at both the beginning and the end of race day.  It was cold, I was nervous, and not because I was going to run a marathon, but because I was going to run a hard marathon.  This course is the real deal; scenic, sure, but tough.  I ripped through the first two miles, around eight minute miles, which back then was quick.  Then, the road went right and up.  I slowed down, but this was not my first rodeo on this hill, so I did not let it dampen my mood.  I had run this hill many times during training, and during my first marathon on this course in 2004, so I was prepared, but it was still painful.  When we made the left hand turn at the crest of the hill I was relieved, and started really movin’.  I settled in right behind a young lad with an impressive white boy fro at around mile ten, and he was cruisin’.  I try to never to waste precious time or breath making friends on the race course, but we were in the middle of no man’s land, the race was very sparse, and honestly I just couldn’t shake him.  It was his first marathon, and he was a fast-paced ball of nerves, and I was not looking for a PR, so I broke my rule, and kept him company for as long as I could hang with his rippin’, “I have no idea how to pace a marathon, fleet-footed teenage pace”. I think he dropped me at mile twentyish, but I was happy to see him go ahead, I felt like my Padwan was ready to finish his own race, and I could relax and suffer in solitude.

I was alone for most of the last 10K.  I knew that I was pretty far up in place for the women, but I was not exactly sure where my rank really was, because the course was nearly deserted, even of volunteers.  I did not feel spectacular, the course punished my limbs like I knew it would, and I was looking forward to it just being over.  Luckily, the steep uphill at mile two, was a welcomed downhill trance basher at mile twenty four.  As a bonus, the last mile traveled right past my Dad’s first house he moved into when my parents separated in the mid 80’s.  My favorite memories in that house are of playing two-touch football games in the front yard with my Dad and siblings every Sunday afternoon before we had to go back to my Mom’s house.  I loathed Sundays.  There is nothing as bitter sweet and crushing than starting your day with one parent, and ending it with another.  So, I gave the house a quick nod as I passed it, but picked up my pace to leave it quickly behind me.

The last half mile is my favorite part of the course because they wind us around the road to where we can see the finish line and truly relish in our epic journey.  The crowds were abysmal at best, again, not many runners at this race, so after I crossed the finish line I sauntered off to find a tree where I could rest my legs, close my eyes, and swim in the giddiness of another marathon finish.  It was confirmed later in the day that I was the third overall female in the race, which was wonderful, but a finish that high up with a time of 3:45 meant that there were not many contenders, but it was still pretty cool to be on the podium for such a challenging race.

Marathon #14 - A Shout Out to My Big Sis

Dreamy Carlsbad, CA or as my friend Molly used to call it, “Carlsgood”, either way it is a wonderful place to be, let alone run around for most of your morning, but that is exactly what I did on January 25^th, 2009. I arrived in Carlsbad the night before the race and stayed with my sister Mary, her wonderful husband, Jim, and their adorable dogs Sawyer and Tyler.  I am always a sucker for quality time with large four-legged doggies, and these two are hilarious. 

 

 

Mary is two years older than me, and a remarkable human being, but we could not possibly be more different.  For example, she is a beautiful 5’6 brunette with olive skin, and a fashion sense rivaled only by Anna Wintour, while I am a freckly red head just shy of 5’11 who applies make up and dresses maybe five times a year.  Maybe.  We had some serious battles growing up, one of which resulted in me laying a strip of masking tape down the center of our bedroom, my mom really loved that, another involved a bruised cheek, and there have been way too many bruised feelings to count.  However, we always set aside our differences for sixty minutes every Thursday night at 8PM to watch Beverly Hills, 90210. My brothers thought that show was miraculous to bring peace between us, and it was.  Nothing beats quality togetherness like some quality time with the Walshes.

Nevertheless, after twenty or so years of not liking each other very much, I can easily say that Mary is one of my best friends, and the person on the other end of my crisis hotline.  All that said, Mary is not a runner, which may not come as a shock, but she is literally my greatest cheerleader, and understands my goals, so it meant a lot to have her play a vital role in my fourteenth marathon

Race morning was cold, dark, and early. For some reason this race felt special, I was not as excited for it during the weeks of training leading up to it, but standing below the starting line in the pitch darkness of a way-too-early start time, with thousands of fellow marathoners, I was brimming with adrenaline, and thrilled to start running, “Bang!”

The first ten miles or so of the course travel along the ocean, and since the race started early, we were witness to a beautiful sunrise that gave me both a jolt of energy, and clarity; I was simply happy to just have the ability to run a marathon, and felt blessed and thankful to be in my shoes at that beautiful moment.

I saw Mary and Jim around mile eleven, a great place to watch for you future spectators because it is far enough into the race to give the runners the pep we need to feel good about how far we have come, and enough zing to keep us trudging through the tough mid-race miles in our near future.  Mary was wearing a big sweatshirt, clanging a bell, and screaming her head off, it was awesome. I was both laughing and crying because it was amazing to hear her scream my name in such a positive tone.  She did look a little tired, but it was about 8:00AM, so I appreciated her efforts to rise, shine and run with me.  Yes, Mary Kelly Heim was actually running next to me for a good minute or so, it was epic!  I have always wanted to make her proud of me, even when she thought I was a disgusting troll of a little sister always getting in her way throughout our formative years, and literally making her sick to her stomach because I smelled like baby oil and coconut, apparently, her sudden desperate display of running to keep up with me that morning granted my wish of over thirty years, my big sister was proud of me.

The next few miles were warm as the sun was truly making an entrance to the day, but I felt good up until mile nineteen.  There is a turn-a-round point right at the crest of a short, but seemingly steep hill, and it was rough.  Luckily, there is a solid crowd at this difficult spot on the course, so I heard many chants of my name as I rounded the top, and thundered on down to run the final seven miles into the finish.  My pace had a slowed a bit, which is natural so deep into a marathon, but I was still cranking out some quick miles, so I held on as long as I could, and cruised into the finish shoot stunned that I had once again qualified for Boston in 3:38…  NiceJ

 

Marathon #13 - The Battle with LA traffic

 I ran my 13^th marathon in October of 2008 in lovely Long Beach California, again.  I decided this would be a great race to keep me tuned up after Louisville, but also intrigued to see how a marathon would feel without the swim and bike ahead of it.  I think it is fair to admit that I was a wee bit overconfident leading up to this race, which may explain the large dose of Karma that dumped on me early race morning.  I have made it my creed to leave my house no later than two hours before any start time, and since I lived about fifty minutes North of Long Beach, I was safely on the road by 5AM.  Unfortunately, the traffic gods wagged their finger at me and my cavalier attitude, and I cemented me in traffic.

 

This sort of scenario is only second to the ultimate nightmare of sleeping through my alarm clock and missing the race altogether, but I was pretty miffed.   Let me just say that I have the utmost respect and understanding of the freeway and overall traffic situation/way of life for us Angelenos.  I spent most of my early twenties in my Honda Civic driving all over Los Angeles while working as a Production Assistant, and I can tell you that nothing was more valuable to me than my Thomas Guide and upbeat adventurous attitude.  I got lost more times than I can count; however, I view getting lost as just a new way of figuring out to find some place.  That said, I guarantee that I could give you seven different options of getting from Point “A” to Point “B” in the greater Los Angeles area, the most coveted secret of all, Fountain Ave. in West Hollywood, better known as the freeway of Hollywood, you’re welcome.

Needless to say I make it a habit to give myself PLENTY of buffer time when traveling anywhere in LA, but that amount of time bloats tremendously on race morning.  The drive itself from our apartment in North Hollywood to Long Beach was smooth, and curse word free, but it took me nearly an hour just to exit the freeway, grrr.  After I finally surrendered to my predicament, I said out loud to myself,”Oh well, this is a chipped race,” meaning my official time would start when I crossed the starting line, not when the gun went off, and the plastic chip weaved through my laces would ping the sensor and let the universe know I was finally on my way.

Once I parked successfully and trotted on down to the start area I hit up the Port-o-Potty’s, (the most important part of the day), then sprinted across the starting line, carefully weaving my through the “Back of the packers” who were either jogging s-l-o-w-l-y, or walking. Suddenly, my killer instinct switched on and I started to juke in and out the snail like crowd like an NFL running back; my usual cool demeanor was still stuck on the 710, and my evil twin “Terry” had taken me over completely.

The course was slightly annoying because it narrowed down from the width of a normal street to the slender concrete bike path around mile seven, which meant if I wasn’t throwing elbows before, I certainly was now.  I think I was running at a respectable pace up until the halfway mark, then my way-too-speedy alter-ego caught up with me, and I started to lose steam. 

The most memorable part of this race is marker for mile twenty three because it is so close to the end, and it sits at the crest of a punchy, sharp hill, so once I saw that sign, I knew I just needed to smile, hit cruise control and enjoy the rest of the ride on in to the finish.  My time was fine, not amazing, but decent, 3:45.  No matter what happens during the Odyssey of a marathon, there is nothing quite as special as crossing the finish line, no matter how many hours and minutes it takes to get there.  Indeed, I started the race with a chip on my shoulder from being nailed by LA traffic, but I recovered, and discovered a higher gear I had yet to hit in previous races, so that was a plus.  I don‘t think I battered or bloodied anyone in the process, but if I did, my apologies, and I hope you had a great raceJ  Next time, I will leave the house even earlier.

Marathon #12 = Ironman #1

Hmm, let’s see, where was I?  Oh yes, marathon #12, ooh, this is a good one…. I ran marathon #12 at the end of an already long day outside as it served as the final leg of my first Ironman triathlon on August 31^st, 2008.  My apologies for the run on sentence, but I think it represents what a very long day it was.  Let me take you back to about eleven months prior to race day, I had my heart set on racing my first Ironman in Wisconsin during September of 2008, however, when I went to go sign up for that race it was already sold out… I am talking minutes here… To say my heart was broken would be an extreme understatement, but I just rolled up my sleeves and searched a little deeper until I struck gold, or Bourbon maybe, Ironman Louisville was slated for late August, and was open, perfect.  So, I paid the daunting entrance fee and sat back to realize I had a little over a year to prep to be an Ironman, good times.   

I mentioned in a previous post that I was inspired by my brother Peter to become an ironman, so naturally I went straight to him for advice on training, his advice was, and I am paraphrasing here, “You need to be in the saddle all the time.” Got it, I need to ride my bike a lot. I launched into my true training schedule about twelve weeks out from the race, which was basically the beginning of June, and one may wonder how I could have gotten all of that “saddle time” in while working twelve plus hours a day? The simple answer is that I quit my job. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?” Yep, it’s true. I have been trying to think of a way to put in writing why and  how we made that decision, Marion and I, because honestly it was almost more him than me, he really wanted me to have the proper time to train for the race, or just not do it at all, which was not an option.  However, the real answer is that A LOT went into my decision to quit my career, let’s be honest, that is what happened, but I will leave the nitty-gritty for my book, and leave you all with the idea that I left to devote all of my time to training and becoming a triathlete superstar and go pro within a year or so, which is kind of true, but not all true.

The training for the race was amazing.  I was doing at least two work outs per day for three months and followed a crude training plan that is comical in retrospect, but sufficient, and I made it to Louisville confident I would be able to finish the race with a smile on my face.  The swim was hysterical, but awesome.  I am not a great swimmer, so when I saw that I met my goal time I was stoked, and ready to crush myself on the bike. 

Oh, the bike… I know that I go on and on about my love for running, and yes I do believe that I am a respectable runner, but riding a bike is really my strong suit.  It could have something to do with the fact that my legs make up nearly 80% of my body, and never give me any Smart-alecky back talk, so I made up a lot of ground on the bike leg from my less than stellar swim performance, and was in a great spot to start the marathon.  **In case any of you don’t know the distances of an ironman triathlon, they break down like this: 2.4mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, 26.2 mile run, which means that when I started my twelfth marathon I had already been “working out” hard for eight hours in the hot, and humid late Summer Kentucky sunshine.

When I ran out of the transition area Marion yelled at me, “Now just go run your usual four hour marathon!” I can’t remember if I laughed out loud at him, or just to myself, either way I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard, bless his heart.  There was no way in the world I was going to run the marathon anywhere near four hours, or was I?

The first couple of miles they sent us over the bridge across the Ohio River, and you know what, I was feeling pretty good.  The course consisted of two loops, and was flanked with a great crowd most of the way, and top notch support with aid stations at every mile stocked up with water, wet sponges, hoses, food, and flat coke.  I chatted with a few fellow runners along the route, and even though I was not moving very quickly at all, I felt like I was flying.  I had never felt so in my element; and alive, months of hard work and sacrifice had come down to these moments, and they felt priceless.  The sun had set at around mile twenty two, and it was nearly, not quite, but nearly dark when I rounded the final turn toward the final shoot into the finish line set up at 4^th Street Live, the epicenter of Louisville nightlife.  I crossed the line hearing Marion, my Dad, and Hannah cheering for me, even now I am tearing up, so I probably was then, too, because it the greatest experience of my life, so far.  The crazy part was that I felt good, great even, and was smiling from ear to ear, I was an Ironman. 

My finish time was 12:52 and change, about an hour faster than my goal time, and my marathon split was 4:28, not a PR marathon time of course, but I knew I could do better next time…