A Race Report, FINALLY!

That's right! Claire is finally, at long, long last back in action. I was going to stage my comeback last Sunday, but the thought of running 9 miles in the cold was feeling a little bit daunting for my inertia level, and when it started pouring floodbuckets as I was driving to the race, I decided that my time would be better spent in a Starbucks somewhere. (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog!) Instead, I ran a rather pathetic two-mile trail run near the house that afternoon and finished absolutely disgusted with myself. I was tight, tired, and out of breath. It seemed to take so much effort just to start moving that to keep moving was too much to ask. I had no idea what my next big event would be, but I decided that I was going to race myself back into shape, starting this week. That's right! I was very motivated to start moving... sometime soon, but not right now.

So comeback 2.0 was planned for the Brazen Racing Nitro Turkey Trot in Pinole, CA. A client would also be doing this race, so there was no chickening out or I'd never save face. As we made the drive over, I was thinking about how this time last year I was on a plane on my way to Mexico, and the two years before I had PRed at the 5 mile distance. Right now all I could hope for was sub-10's.

I knew I would be running a 10K trail run, but other than that, I had no idea what to expect. What was the course like? How many people? What time did it start? I wasn't really sure about any of these things. Scout (formerly Bobberanne, but that nickname is too close to her real name so I feel obliged to change it) and I rolled into the Point Pinole Regional State Park up near the northern tip of the San Francisco Bay a comfortable 45 minutes before the race was supposed to start. But by the time I'd filled out the race day registration, picked up my chip (that's right, CHIP! For a 10K Turkey Trot!), picked up my t-shirt, and used The Smelliest Outhouse I've ever used in my life (no exaggeration), it was already 15 minutes past the projected start time. Luckily, there were so many late arrivals, that the race didn't start until about half an hour after it was supposed to. I wasn't worried. I had a feeling that there would be suffering involved in this, so I wasn't in any particular hurry.

At the Salem Wild Turkey Trot, I had never seen anyone run dressed up. Dressing up is for Halloween runs and charity activists at spectator marathons. Half the people at this race were dressed up as pilgrims, turkeys, or Indians. One woman was wearing a pilgrim's bonnet, one of those frilly bib-like things that the Puritans used to wear, and a full black ass-tight running outfit. She looked like a giant baby missing her diaper. I tried not to judge the idiots who had dressed up as pilgrims or poultry, but I felt free to judge the people dressed up as Indians because they were clearly loser racist bigots who deserved to sprain their ankles and they had better all be behind me, even though I wasn't expecting anyone to be behind me today. Also, since I was signing up the day of the race, I would have to wait for my finisher's medal to be sent in the mail. Really? A finisher's medal for a 5K/10K?

Can I take a moment to go off about finisher's medals? Call me a snob, but I don't believe that any event that the winners complete in under an hour deserves a finisher's medal. We're coddling our children and we're coddling our adults. Half the girls that participate in our girls' running program are overweight. I traded my t-shirt with an 8-year-old because hers was too small and mine was too big. I wear a youth large. She barely fit into an adult small. These girls could probably run a whole mile without stopping, but they know that they'll get the same credit if they walk, and they know that if the workout has a time goal, that there's no more reward for running than walking. Because it's non-competitive. Okay, I see it. Kids can get really upset when they "lose," but you know what? Losing is a part of life. And now we're coddling out adults, increasing the "acceptable" body fat percentages and trying to sugar-coat the fact that the Surgeon General had to increase the daily activity recommendations (60 minutes most days of the week) because we're increasingly sedentary and inactive in our everyday lives. Now a 5K is treated like some huge achievement. In some countries (even some people in cities like San Francisco) you can't get through your day without walking 3.1 miles. And here we are awarding finisher's medals to people finishing a 5K in over an hour?! It's like saying, "Congratulations! You managed to wipe your own ass AND tie your own shoes!"

No, you know what, I take that back. The people who finish a 5K in over an hour DO deserve a finisher's medal, because they are either so old, so young, so fat, or so out of shape that finishing a 5K really is a huge achievement (see the Biggest Loser lady who inspired me to run a marathon). But for the people who are otherwise healthy individuals, whether they run slow or fast, how good their Thanksgiving brunch will taste after the race should be reward enough. Someday I'm going to run an obesity awareness 5K where everybody has to run with a BMI over 30. If you are of a normal weight, then you have to wear a weighted vest that puts you over 30 (so I, as a 5'2" female weighing 125 lb would have to wear an additional 29-lb vest). Anyone whose BMI is over 30 would get a .1 mile advantage for every point that their BMI is above 30. Then I'll give people finisher's medals for a 5K. And the finisher's medals will be galvanized doughnuts. Hmph. Okay, I feel better now.

I was beginning to see where my $45 race fee was going. I wrote "NO MEDAL NECESSARY" on the address line of my registration form and went to pick up my chip.

"What do you mean, your chip?" Scout asked.

"They make you wear this computer chip around your ankle," I explained, pulling the OTT triathlon-style neoprene band out of the envelope. How much extra had I paid for chip timing? In a race where people were running with turkey waddles hanging from their visors and feathers on their heads, did we really need computerized timing? What ever happened to the days of tying it into your shoelaces or tearing the tab off the bottom of your number? I could feel that I was turning into a grouchy old man.

"What? So if you get lost in the woods they can identify you? Like a pet?" Scout asked.

"No! So they know when you started and finished!" It was funny to see her taking it all in. Scout wasn't familiar with the whole running culture. From the looks of it, neither were most of the turkeys (and pilgrims and Indians) here.

Finally we lined up and the race announcer went through an interminable explanation of how not to run off-course. When I saw how non-technical this course was, the explanation seemed even more preposterous. Most preposterous of all, though, was that the announcer was talking to a sea of ears plugged up with earbuds. Packed cheek-to-jowl with a bunch of white people in face paint, I couldn't wait to get started. I thought I would have to sit through a bunch of faux Indians pulling off their headdresses to sing the National Anthem (at which point I would have thrown up), but luckily there was no Star Spangled Banner in this crowd.

The fog horn went off, and we all started running. The first several steps were on some soft grass, and mere seconds into my comeback I felt a burning sensation spreading through my ankle. It didn't last long, though, and in no time I was darting through the sea of walkers and 13-minute-mile runners (with headphones, of course) who hadn't headed the recommendation to stay back if you were slow. I vowed to think of a way to punish these people someday.

My strategy for this race was just to sit back and listen to my body. I knew that I could finish 6 miles, even in my sad state of being, so this would be a question of just not fucking it up by doing anything stupid. Just run, I thought. I felt like a cyclist trying to run. My back and hamstrings were tight, and I felt heavy, not light and bouncy, like I was trying to muscle my way down the path. I felt like I was stuck in the first 5 minutes of a transition run for six miles. My muscles burned and my hips wouldn't move right.

Me hiding behind probably the only other 2 people in the race NOT wearing headphones.

As I thump-thump-thumped down the trail, I was passing more people than were passing me, ESPECIALLY on the "hills." I couldn't believe it. This was no hard-core technical single-track, it was more like "path running" than trail running and you could run at road race pace (not like I have one of those these days). And yet I was still passing people, even in the second half when things had usually sifted out and my too-fast pace usually catches up with me. Weird, huh? I wasn't running a blistering pace, but this pace felt tough. I tried not to look at my watch in fear that a "tough" pace would be 10-minute miles.

I was enjoying my elephant run; plop, plop, plopping down the trail, even kind of enjoying the burning in my lungs and crankiness in my hips and back that told me I was sorely out of shape. I was enjoying being in the woods, out of the city, and stomping over the eucalyptus bark on the trail. But I might as well have been out there by myself. I didn't breathe a word to another soul for the whole race. At first I thought that this was some serious turkey trotting, that people were too busy racing to offer encouragement or holiday wishes to other runners. Then I noticed the headphones. This sure was different from New England running... I wondered if I would ever meet any straight men over 40 in California if they were all wearing headphones. Who would I ever talk to?

Despite feeling like poop, it looks like my form was actually better than in any race photo I've ever seen. Forward lean, no forward footstrike, high knees... But the strangest part indeed is that strange expression I have around my mouth.

Over the last 2 miles I was closing in on a girl. Once we hit the six-mile mark, I decided that I would try to kick it in. She heard me coming and kicked back. Then my stomach kicked back. That's when I remembered my race strategy to not throw up, and let her go. As I crossed the finish line, a guy kicking behind me didn't quite pass me. The camera caught me just as I looked at him with a great feeling of well at least I beat you!

I left the finishing corral, grabbed a glass of water, and walked back to where I'd seen Scout around the 6-mile mark. As I walked, I saw a girl pull over just yards short of the finish line, duck under the line of flags, and puke her guts out. I'd done that before. I remembered the feeling. It's called a hangover. Despite being as out of shape as I was, I was glad that I wasn't that girl.

Much to my surprise, I'd finished in 52:39 for what Garmin called 6.32 miles. (Splits: 8:25, 8:18, 8:46, 7:59, 8:12, 8:27, 7:47). It wasn't the fastest race I'd ever run, but it was far from the nearly 60 minutes I'd been expecting to take. That put me somewhere in the middle of the pack in 70th out of 263 (top 27% of turkeys, giblets, and racing racists), and 9th out of 24 in my age group (38%).

Sure, sure, it wasn't a great result. I've fallen pretty far (back about 2 years to be exact), but at least while I was plodding along I was enjoying being back out there. Who cared that I was running like a bulldog rather than a greyhound? I had a whole, entire day off, I had food in the fridge, and money to sign up for a $45 race. I guess I had something to be thankful for...

I've got more plans and schemes coming up, but I'll save those for another post. Happy (belated) Thanksgiving, everyone!

Couples Counseling with Running

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm mad at Running. It's a slightly abusive and unfulfilling relationship. In short, I want it to just happen. I want to wake up one morning and just suddenly, magically be a good runner. From there I will be willing to work hard to become a great runner, but hard work is not exciting when you're working your ass off just to crack the top 50% of the field (slowpokes and fatasses included). I have decided that a 7-minute mile would be pretty fabulous, and a pace that I am more than willing to not work for. If I could run 7-minute miles all the time, I'd be pretty stoked and wouldn't mind run training. Then again, I would also be pretty stoked if I won the lottery, landed my dream job, or Dara Torres asked me out on a date.

I just find it WAY easier to sit there and grumble about being a crappy runner than actually going out and doing the work to BECOME a good runner. See, the problem with learning to be a better runner is that you've actually got to run to do it. This arrangement does not work for me.

However, like it or not, I am still committed to running for at least the next year, so I'm going to have to learn to live with it. So I have brought Running an olive branch. Running and I are going to counseling. Twice a week for the next four weeks (and beyond), I will be following a program to improve the efficiency and technique of my running.

Almost a month ago I purchased Striding On based on the glowing reports they gave it on my favoritest podcast, IM Talk. I figured that if Bevan, a 9-hour ironman, had taken the initiative to stick to this program and saw results from doing some drills off a DVD, then I could too. Ordering stuff from New Zealand turned out to be an adventure in and of itself, figuring out exchange rates, and attempting an international bank transfer before I went the Paypal rout. Then, 3 weeks later, when it showed up at the post office, they turned the package over and over trying to decipher which bar code they were supposed to scan before they let me sign for it. Then I realized that the southern hemisphere has a different standard of DVD's than the States (Europe does too, so I should have seen that one coming). Finally, I got it to work and watched the DVD tonight.

I enjoyed this form of training because it involved no actual running. I wish all training could be done in front of my computer.

So beginning next week, I will go to an undisclosed location alone, in the dark, where no sane people can see me, and I will begin breaking down my running motion with movements that look like I'm being zapped with electrical impulses in the bottom of my feet. I will perform drills with such names as "The Funky Walk," "The Butt Kiss Jog," and "The Fast Step-Over Jog" (which looks much sillier than it sounds). Sure, I may look like someone out of the Ministry of Silly Walks, but I hope that I will be rewarded with sexier race pictures, feet that actually leave the ground as I run, and of course, instant and effortless 7-minute miles.