Backrub: check

For the record, I received the promised backrub yesterday. Since I would have definitely posted something had I not received it, I figure I owe my husband the courtesy of letting the world (or rather, the two or three people who follow this blog) know that he lived up to his promise. It was a good backrub, but, as is often the case, much too short.

This morning's run was, unfortunately, not so good, and much too long. I don't even want to go into the details here because I'd rather forget it ever happened. Suffice it to say, taper can't come fast enough.

My backrub was better than this...

...but not as good as this.

Perspective through 18 miles or less

I'm trying to remind myself today how lucky I am to be here, to be healthy, and to be a runner. Sometimes it's pretty easy to wallow in our own self-pity (or at least it is for me) and to lose perspective of just how lucky we are. I keep falling into that trap in my exhausted state today, and so I thought that putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, as the case might be) might help to remind me just how much I have to be thankful for.

This past weekend was a bit of a running hell for me. It came rather unexpectedly, because last Thursday's interval session in the Park was a pretty big success, all things considered. Zdenek and I ran fast, we felt okay, and because we're approaching taper time, we only had to log seven miles total. Friday was a prescribed rest day, so I finished Thursday's workout feeling pretty positive about the scheduled 18 miler (half of it at race pace) for Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, Thursday and Friday nights were restless ones for reasons that I still can't put my finger on. I slept poorly, woke up early (i.e., 4 am-ish), and couldn't relax enough to doze off again. This is very atypical for me, as I've always been very proud of my sleeping abilities. I'm usually out like a light within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow, though I know this (a) probably just indicates that I'm sleep deprived, and (b) ticks Zdenek off, since he doesn't possess this cat-like power. So it was with much frustration and anxiety that I found myself up with the chirping birds on Saturday morning, debating whether or not to just put on my running gear and attempt my 18 miles on a cumulative total of about 11 hours of shut-eye over the last 48 hours. Thinking that I'd just nap later in the day, I decided to go for it around 6 am.

The Good: Central Park at 6 am on a weekend morning is a beautiful place to be. My companions consisted mostly of road cyclists eager to get in their speedy miles before the wandering tourists arrived, and the roads were pretty void of runners at that hour. As the sun was rising over the pond and the air was a cool 12 degrees Celsius, I was, for a brief moment in time, happy that I had made the decision to forgo another attempt at catching a few zzzzs.

The Bad: Within about an hour, the Park was full of the usual characters, and my tranquility was lost. I also started to get very tired. Nine miles in, at which point I had to kick it into a higher gear for the "race pace" portion of my run, I was starting to seriously question my ability to finish this run in tact.

The Ugly: The last six miles saw me stop repeatedly for prolonged walks, take a bathroom break at the Central Park boathouse, and cut 0.5 miles and four big hills off my run because I simply didn't think I could manage it without collapsing. My chance for one final, solid long run before the marathon was wasted.

As you can imagine, this outcome left me feeling pretty discouraged and frustrated. I won't get that training opportunity back, I exhausted myself but spent the rest of the day unable to relax enough to take the nap I was so looking forward to, and, once again, I began questioning my level of preparedness for my race. But a few other things have happened over the last few days that I'm trying to bear in mind to help put things in perspective.

First, in light of my poor physical and emotional state, my husband has actually promised me a backrub tonight. This is a huge deal and I am putting it in writing, here in my blog, so that I can hold him to it. If I had saved a dollar every time I got a backrub from him in the first year of our relationship, and then spent a dollar every time I got a backrub in every year after that, I think I would still have about $100 (which, coincidentally, would have allowed me to just pay a professional for 60 minutes of deep tissue massaging bliss today). Second, aside from my disastrous running and sleeping episodes, the rest of my weekend was filled with warm weather, the company of good friends on each night, and a bounty of delicious food and drink. It's hard to be a complainer when you take a minute to realize that you have very little to complain about. Third, on a serious and very significant note, two of my close friends each lost a loved one in the last week. The message here is an obvious one that we hear frequently but rarely take to heart: treat every day as your last, because one day, it will be.

I'm trying to remind myself to be thankful for my health, abilities, and good fortunes. Sometimes all it takes are 18 bad miles (or 17.5, to be exact) to remind you how good you have it.

I (heart) Tim

Recently I received a message from my very injured Canadian running coach, Kevin, describing the extent and impact of his running-related injuries. Here in New York, I have an American friend, Caitlin, who describes herself as a "running, swimming, biking, squash-playing, cooking, nature-loving, early-morning-rising" kind of girl. Caitlin has also recently suffered a string of terrible injuries. Only she can relay the series of events correctly, but I think it started with sciatica and ended with her in physio every other day for three hours at a time (I've been known to exaggerate, but this is no exaggeration), being treated for everything from a stress reaction in her foot to a bum hip. Because she's had to lay off the running (and even forgo a planned marathon this spring), cycling, and squash, her injuries have been the source of both physical and emotional distress. I can only imagine her frustration; the most serious injury I've suffered to-date is a swollen second toe -- apparently diagnosed as plantar capsilitus by my celebrity podiatrist (that is, a podiatrist to the celebrities of running), and which I will no doubt get to at some point in a future post -- and though I've had the occasional shin pain or sore knee or tight plantar fascia, I've never had to take a day off of running because of a running-related injury (which is quite amazing, all things considered).

Note: not my foot

It is therefore with much sympathy that I've been following Caitlin's injury rehabilitation. So when, a few days ago, I received an email from Kevin describing his litany of injuries and the associated sadness/pain/frustration/anger that goes with them, I thought Caitlin might like to know that she's not the only one out there who is suffering. I excerpted a part of his email to show to her, which included the following line: "I can't do ANYTHING without intense pain--inline skate, elliptical, cycle...even a 1 mile walk to Tim Hortons has me in tears (from the pain, but also from the hopelessness and powerlessness of not being able or allowed to even TRY at anything)." While Cailtin replied that she could most definitely relate to Kevin's pain and frustration, she added at the end, "I like that he walks a mile to eat donuts at Tim Horton's, hehe." But as any Canadian reader would have already understood, it's highly unlikely that Kevin was trying to walk a mile for donuts. Though I haven't confirmed this with him, I'm guessing that he was attempting the trek for the sake of Tim Hortons coffee.


Tim's is something of an institution in Canada. It's eponymous Canadian founder was a former NHL player for teams that included the Toronto Maple Leafs and the New York Rangers, but, for most Canadians today, Tim Horton's is synonymous with deliciously wonderful coffee. It has an earthy richness to it that goes down like a warm embrace in your belly, and, in my house, Tim's is all my husband and I drink. About two years ago, we began hauling it back with us to NYC every time we visited Canada, and we now try to buy a sufficient number of tins to hold us through to our next planned trip. (Canadian visitors to our humble abode are encouraged to bring a tin, too.) My family, who are also Tim's devotees, drinks several cups of the stuff each day. Last summer, on vacation with my parents in Ecuador, it was amusing to find my java-loving dad drinking only tea for two weeks: they don't have Tim's in South America.

While I normally enjoy my Tim's after my morning run and before heading to work, there have been an increasing number of studies over the last few months documenting the positive effect of caffeine on athletic performance. Apparently all one needs is about one mg of caffeine per one kg of body weight to see a beneficial effect on endurance and performance; five or six mgs/kg is probably okay, but nine mgs/kg can actually be detrimental. Since the average 12 oz cup of drip coffee contains about 200 mg of caffeine, that means I'm pretty much good to go with one cup of coffee before my run. So over the last few months, I have changed my Saturday morning long run routine to include rolling out of bed at 7 am to brew half a pot of Tim's (I don't have time to brew, drink, and let the "gastrointestinal effect" of coffee kick in before my weekday runs). Every 50-60 minutes during my long runs, I also typically ingest a chocolate-flavored Power Gel that contains 25 mg of caffeine (I recommend Power Gel, not GU, because the former has a 4:1 sodium:potassium ratio while the latter does not, and I've read that this is the optimal ratio for achieving optimal performance).

I can't say that the extra caffeine has had much, if any, positive effect on my performance, but I don't think it's harming it, either. I do remember a few long runs over the last few years, though, on which I was so tired that I thought I might be able to shut my eyes and doze off for a few minutes while still plodding along. I haven't felt that way this season, so maybe the caffeine actually is doing something. (This would make some sense, since I often run on Saturdays until 11:30 am, and by this time of the morning on any other day I would already have two cups of Joe -- excuse me, Tim's -- under my belt.) On the other hand, back when I was young and foolish and first started running routinely, I typically partied away my Friday nights and would roll out of bed hungover and on a few hours of sleep to begin Saturday morning's run. Over the last year, I've become a bit of an old fart, and I'm now pretty vigilant about 10:30 pm bedtimes on Fridays. So it may not be the caffeine at work, but rather the extra dose of prudence.

The jury is still out on whether my pre-run cup of Tim's is actually helping me to run faster, further, or stronger on Saturday mornings. It does, however, provide a good incentive to get out of bed on a weekend morning. And I imagine that, God forbid I should ever end up as injured as Caitlin or Kevin, walking to get a freshly brewed cup at the nearest store will provide a good form of cross-training -- especially if I have to walk all the way to Canada!

Letdown at Beantown

Today is the Boston Marathon! Sadly, I'm at work today and can't watch it live, but I will definitely be watching my DVR when I get home tonight. I am hoping that either Ryan Hall or Kara Goucher will win -- I can't imagine them both winning, but that would be extraordinary. Regardless of the outcome (and please don't tell me what that is because I want to see for myself!), it's guaranteed to be an exciting race on the legendary hilly course.

I have mixed feelings about the Boston marathon. For a middle-of-the pack, long distance runner who could never hope to win an age group (let alone a marathon), running a "Boston qualifier" is one clear-cut goal for which to strive. Whether or not the qualifying times are scientific or fair is a debate for a different post. The fact remains that the qualifying times are a reasonably difficult standard for most average runners (of which I am one), and Boston is the only race which requires a qualifying time for entry (although there are a few ways, such as running for a charity or being well-connected, to get in the back door). The allure of qualifying, combined with the "legendary" Boston crowds and historic course, make this a race that every semi-serious marathoner hopes to run at lease once.

I first qualified for Boston at my third marathon, the Cincinnati Flying Pig, in 2006. As mentioned in my first post, this was one of the most significant days of my adult life. I worked extremely hard to get there and it signaled, for me, my transition to a semi-serious athlete. I didn't come down from by "BQ" high for weeks. My husband framed my Flying Pig poster along with a plaque of my time and "Boston Qualifier" status, and it hangs proudly over our "mantle" (which, in a NYC apartment, is the Ikea shelf above our television). I trained for Boston in 2007, hoping to cement my status as a "recurring" qualifier at that race. My parents and in-laws flew across the country to witness the momentous occasion. I was excited to have finally arrived as a runner!

Boston turned out to be a bit of a let-down for me. Race weekend was hit by one of the worst Nor'easters in Boston history, and it was the only marathon since WWII that the organizers apparently considered canceling (the jury was still out at 5 am on race day). The day before the race was bitterly cold and stormy. At one point, my mother looked at me and said, "You're not actually going to run in this, are you?" -- as if I was reserving some secret option to drop out at the last minute!! Marathon Monday (Boston is run on Patriot's Day, which is observed in Massachusetts) turned out to be a bit less rainy, but slightly warmer and more humid, than most people had expected, which was not a good thing, since many (myself included) were totally overdressed. The morning of the race, I (along with thousands of others) stood around for two or three hours in a football field, ankle-deep in mud, trying to stay shielded from one of the last torrential downpours. When the gun finally went off, I was a mile away from the starting line, stuck in a different (but no less important) queue for the port-o-potty; I had to frantically weave through the streets of Hopkinton and about 10,000 runners to try to catch up with my corral. I spent most of the first six miles dodging in and out of runners who were meant to be much further back than me, and I'm convinced that I ran at least 27.2 miles that day. I killed my quads -- and I mean killed my quads -- with the steep downhills in the first part of the race, for which I was totally unprepared. (It is absolutely true that running downhill is much harder than running uphill.) Unfortunately, when it was time to climb the Newton Hills, my quads had permanently seized to function. On top of it all, most of the "legendary" Boston crowds failed to materialize that day. My co-worker, Jim, a Massachusetts native, was stationed on the sidelines somewhere around mile 23. By the time I got to him, I was in excruciating pain and cursing myself for ever wanting to do this so badly. I greeted Jim's call-out of "Jodi!" by rolling my eyes at him (I'm pretty sure Jim will not be coming out to cheer me on at any future races)!

Me at 5 am, dressed for the weather

Boston was, in essence, a disappointment for me. This race that I had so aspired to would have been better off left in my imagination. So last year, when I qualified again, I was determined to get my proper Boston experience by running it in 2009 (isn't "insanity" defined as repeating the same actions but expecting different results?). And I am indeed registered in today's race. Scheduling conflicts forced me to switch to a marathon that is three weeks later, and, to be truthful, I knew that my goal of setting a PR was likely incompatible with running Boston's brutal course. I thus forfeited my $110 to the BAA this year and perhaps will run it again another time. Nevertheless, Boston remains one of the world's most prestigious and exciting marathons, and I'm still proud that I've run it in the some of the worst conditions that race has seen. I can, however, reassure any fellow runners who are trying but perhaps unable to qualify for this race: be careful what you wish for.

Unable to stand up after my Boston experience

C'est le printemps!

It is a wonderfully sunny, beautiful day in New York today, and I'm tempted to say that, perhaps, spring is here! I've been tricked into thinking this before. Back in March, there was one Sunday that the mercury crept past 20 degrees Celsius, and we dusted off our bikes for a quick spin in the park. (It turned out to be a day filled with mishaps galore -- I missed Bono, apparently, as I went past him on my rocket red Giant entering the park at West 77th Street, which is probably the biggest disappointment I've had in a long time; I also got pushed in the chest as I tried to weave past an angry Frenchman who refused to "pardon moi.") Since then, we haven't been back on our bikes. It's remained chilly enough that fall/winter cycling attire would be required, and I own none of these things, having spent a small fortune last summer outfitting myself in warm weather cycling clothing. Truthfully, I don't mind too much, because my running suffers with every degree increase in temperature, and, this being the East coast, every percentage increase in humidity. For now, the cool temperatures have been most conducive to successful running, but I can't help but feel excited when I can eat my lunch in the park as I did today.

Unlike where I grew up, New York really has four distinct seasons. By a long shot, the spring and fall are the best. The summers are oppressively hot and sticky and I can think of few things worse than my swollen feet, cut up in every possible dimension from the various sandals I own, standing on the steaming hot subway platform, where I'm inhaling dust and grime and smoke while waiting for a train that will most certainly be filled with too many sweaty bodies wearing too little clothing, all packed tightly against one another. Winter can be nice, but it tends to just be cold without much fresh snow to enjoy. When it does snow, it's usually a few hours of pristine loveliness immediately followed by days of slushy mess, making my morning and afternoon treks through Times Square a bit of a landmine in terms of icy puddle jumping. But the fall and the spring are terrific. For one thing, there actually is a fall here. It brings with it slightly cooler temperatures but a long-awaited drop in the humidity, and the leaves remain on the trees long enough to reveal their true colors. The spring, in which I dare say we currently are, teases us with earlier sunrises and later sunsets, cooler nights but warmer days, and a splendor of buds, flowers, and beauty. The cherry blossoms, magnolias, daffodils, and tulips have made running in the Park lately something of a dream.

I'm known to complain about New York from time to time. It's too busy, too crowded, too expensive. The airports are a nightmare, the roads are clogged, and sometimes it's easy to feel trapped on this island. I don't anticipate I'll live here forever. At some point, wide(r) open spaces, or, at the very least, a washer/dryer, will beckon. But on days like today, it's a treat to be in the City. Tomorrow I have my longest training run yet -- 23 miles. I plan to run three full loops of the Park, plus the middle four mile loop, which, from my home and back, should add up to 23.221 miles (to be exact). It would be an all the more daunting proposition if I were facing grey skies or strong winds. But tomorrow, my forecast looks like this:
So as long as I can enjoy the cooler hours of the early morning, it should be a very good day indeed. I'm already looking forward to the pancakes I've been promised for brunch!

Mind over matter?

I like to think of myself as a pretty rational person. Although I'm certain that my female brain is sometimes guided more by emotion than logic, I tend to think like a scientist (which I am, after all, if only by education). It's in my nature to analyze a situation in light of a myriad of factors and moving variables, and yes, this sometimes traps me in analysis paralysis. My days are usually planned out well in advance: what I'll be doing and when, who I'll be seeing and where, what I'll be eating and when I'll prepare it, and what miles I'll log in the park or at the gym. Menus with too many choices freak me out; impromptu dinner invitations don't fit well into my scheduled "fun time." I prefer to have access to spreadsheets and hard data whenever possible -- just the other night, for example, I built a spreadsheet to analyze my travel options for mixing airfares and reward points for a trip home this summer, thus allowing me to calculate the "worth" of my reward points in each scenario. I rarely, if ever, make gut-level decisions.

This constant need to collect and analyze data definitely extends to my running. Since I took up running with some regularity and seriousness in 2004, I have recorded my every mile, pace, and, usually, heart rate (average, max, and sometimes resting) in an online training log. (I tend to leave the HR monitor at home when not training for a specific event. The first few runs without it are full of separation anxiety, but I've found that, surprisingly, sometimes I actually do enjoy running more without it! Go figure!) Furthermore, I typically don't have just the current round of training data open on my computer at any one time. Rather, I leave open every round of training data for my last three or four races (sometimes stretching back three years) so that I can quickly jump between them and compare how I'm improving (or not). As you can imagine, this plethora of data gives me much to pour over and analyze. Where was my HR on a similar run last year? How many hours of sleep did I average that week? How much does my pace decrease with every 10 mph increase in wind speed?

It's 24 days before my race, and I can't help but compare my current speeds/HRs/recovery rates to those from a comparable point in my training last year. And lately, what I've been finding hasn't been too encouraging. In March 2008, I ran a PR at the Virginia Beach Shamrock Marathon and, as noted in a previous post, I am hoping to set another PR at this year's Mississauga Marathon. I'm doing a bit more strength training and have been delighted to find that my hill repeats and, sometimes, interval speeds, have improved slightly this year. But a closer look at the data has revealed that, on an average run that doesn't involve sprinting repeatedly up Harlem Hill or around the Jackie Onassis Reservoir, my pace and HR are not much better than 14 months ago! I would imagine that an 11 mile Monday run or a 22 mile practice race is a much better indicator of my marathon potential than a 250 m dash up a hill. And if those runs haven't witnessed much improvement, is it realistic of me to aim for a PR? Am I setting myself up for major disappointment?

Setting aside lack of ability, one of the reasons I know that I could never be a successful competitive athlete is that I cannot say aloud, with certainty, "I am going to win" (or at least what a "win" would be to me, i.e., setting a new PR). I am always amazed when I hear the Paula Radcliffes and Kara Gouchers of the world announce, to the media no less, their intentions to win the NYC or Boston marathons! How bold! Aren't they just setting themselves and everyone else up for disappointment? Wouldn't they be better off saying that they've trained hard and hope to perform well, and then be pleasantly surprised if it actually translates into a first place finish? As it turns out, the answer is "no." Part of being a successful athlete is to truly believe that you can, and will, win. I'm not sure if sports are 50/50 physical/mental, but I don't deny (or at least, I've read enough studies to convince me) that the brain can be a powerful training tool.

Nevertheless, it's simply never been my tendency to make such affirmations to myself or others. And while secretly I hope that everything will come together beautifully on race day to help me achieve my goals, I'd rather consult the data to determine what's realistically possible. After all, in a marathon, the worst thing is to go out too hard at a pace that's simply unmanageable over 26.2 miles, because somewhere around 20 miles the proverbial "wall" is encountered, and the last six miles can end up taking as long as the first ten. So isn't it better that I think rationally and scientifically about this, and determine in advance the pace that my body can tolerate on race day? Is it enough to want to do really well? Will my brain carry me those last six miles when my legs no longer can? I'm still thinking about these questions as I count down the days to my race. (And as a careful reader will observe, I'm still not quite ready to reveal my PR goal.)

Painful reminders

One of the golden rules of marathon training (or, I imagine, training for any specific race or event) is to do all of your experimentation during your training program so that race day simply becomes a matter of executing what's already been tried and tested. This applies to fueling and hydrating yourself before and during the event, testing every last item of clothing that you think you may possibly need to wear on race day, knowing how many hours of sleep you need for optimal performance on the road, and properly estimating how much time and coffee you need to get ready and achieve optimal performance in the bathroom. A related rule states that you should probably refrain from trying any new activities or sports during the few crucial weeks before race day, lest you tear a muscle, break a leg, or otherwise injure yourself. Skiing is bad because you could really mess up your knee (I have a few too many coworkers who have suffered meniscus tears on the slopes for my liking), and cycling could land you with a broken wrist or severely torn elbow (been there, done that). As I learned this weekend, you should also refrain from trying any new dance moves during marathon training, because (a) you'll look like an idiot, and (b) it can really hurt your calves.

We just returned from a lovely Easter weekend north of the border where we mostly ate, drank, laughed, talked, and, as it happened, danced with my in-laws. It was a great weekend and we were blessed with superbly sunny skies for both Saturday and Sunday. On Friday I managed to lay pretty low and kept to a two drink maximum on the eve of our long run. Even a 20 minute walk on Friday seemed like a lot of work to me -- it's amusing that I can be so lazy when my schedule permits it! Saturday morning turned out to be a gloriously sunny day and, best of all, this was a recovery week that called for a simple 13 miles. It's pretty amazing how, after weeks of 18+ mile long runs (and every third one at race pace), an easy 13 miles truly feels like a walk in the park. Zdenek and I ran together, in equal measure against the wind and with the breeze at our backs, and the beautiful sunshine and fact that we were, technically, "on vacation," propelled us to a pace that was a good 20 seconds per mile faster than necessary. Finishing 13 miles together feeling refreshed and happy was a lovely treat!

Since the rest of the weekend was scheduled "rest time" (I jammed all of my runs and cross-training sessions into the week before), the end of that 13 miles was the green light to eat, drink, and be merry. After a relaxing day filled with delicious food and drink, Saturday night found us slightly tipsy and looking to make fools of ourselves. Well, we didn't set out to make fools of ourselves, but that's what ended up happening. As is usually the case at my in-laws' house, we migrated down to the basement bar shortly after dinner. There, my father-in-law proceeded to pump out some combination of Neil Diamond, Eddie Money, and Boney M, while a strobe light pulsated in the corner (I kid you not). And we danced. Or at least, jumped around and threw our hands in the air in some form of movement that approximated a mixture of polka and Sweatin' to the Oldies. And for some reason, I felt that the more air I got, the better I must have been "dancing", and so I pretty much jumped around the room until my arches hurt (a mild nag in my plantar fascia which I've been stretching and icing to keep at bay) and I decided that I needed another drink. It continued on like this for some time, until the drinking periods started to outlast the dancing ones.



Sunday morning found my calves permanently clenched into some sort of tight mass, a feeling I've never once experienced in training, no matter how many miles I log in one week. I winced getting out of bed, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have to run that day, and sometime at around 4 am this morning, the nagging tightness caused me to readjust my weekly schedule in a half-awake state. Rather than subjecting my legs to further torture with a scheduled 11 miler this morning, I made the decision to try to ease my damaged gastrocnemius muscles back into running with a five mile fartlek. (Tomorrow, 11 miles, whether I like it or not.) In fact, I only remember ever feeling this type of pain in my calves back when I first started running routinely, somewhere around 2001. Back then I believed that the more I bounced, the more gazelle-like -- and therefore graceful -- I must have appeared. I continued on this way for a couple of years until I realized that my sore calves and aching knees were probably due to all the unnecessary air time. There's a different cause for my tight calves this time around, but it's no less painful. In any case, it was a relatively safe reminder that it's best not to try anything new in the weeks before the race, and that, as captured in these photos, I still have a long way to go in the "grace" department.

Intervals: success
Pizza: hot
Beer: in hand
LOST: about to begin

(Not) the fast lane

Tonight I have to run intervals. (Since I know that, after doing so, I'm guaranteed to be sitting on my couch with my husband in a Jell-O-like state, beer in hand, watching last night's recorded Lost episode, and since we are off tomorrow to visit my in-laws for Easter, I know this post is now or never.)

If there's any part I dislike about marathon training, speed intervals would be it (hills are a close second). Something about my short, thick legs makes them rather inconducive to rapid turnover, and I'm simply horrible at this aspect of training. When non-runners tell me they don't like running, intervals are the one area in which I can see their point. They're simply work for work's sake. Round and round, back and forth, up and down. I usually start dreading these workouts the night before, thinking about them as I go to sleep. I fear them when I awake on the scheduled day. (It doesn't help that last night we were out late (for me) celebrating a friend's birthday, and I'm still trying to shake off the three glasses of red wine this morning. So far the only thing that Thursday, April 9, 2009 has going for it is the fact that it's gloriously sunny outside, and it's difficult to be in a bad mood with blue skies and sunshine.)

That I am not a good sprinter is not helped by the fact that I don't know how to pace myself. Kevin, my coach, tells me that I should alternate slow-fast-slow-fast, etc., and the last rep should be the fastest. Instead, my reps usually end up looking something like this:

1. very, very fast (for me)
2. very fast
3. fast
4. respectable
5. pathetic
6. embarrassing
7. very fast

The difference between this round of interval training and all those I've done over the last five years is that, this time, my husband is out suffering with me. He's running the Half Marathon in Mississauga, and is therefore following a training plan that looks similar to mine, except that he drops out of every Saturday long run about halfway through (as I like to tell him, he doesn't know the half of it) and he skips one workout, on average, each week (usually the fartlek, in spite of how much he loves to say that word). Running hill repeats or intervals with Zdenek consists mostly of me looking at his backside. He's so much stronger and faster than me that my already slow self feels like the fat kid in gym class, the gap between us ever increasing. It also annoys me that, because he lets me start a few seconds before him and ends up passing me midway through to finish a few seconds ahead of me, his total rest time is longer than mine. This seems profoundly unfair. But I try not to complain because I am grateful for his company; it's true what they say about misery.

What it's worth

I'm currently in training for the May 10 Mississauga Marathon. This has probably been this most demanding (largely self-imposed) training I've ever done, and lately it has me wondering how we value our accomplishments and those of others. I'm up to 45-50 miles per week right now, and I've been diligently lifting weights and doing core work twice a week. I've also been forcing myself to do 2x20 lunges after two of my runs every week to strengthen my quads (and therefore my knees and downhill running ability), and sometimes I think that this is actually the most difficult aspect of my training; I've never quite experienced rubber legs like those brought on by walking lunges after a 7 or 8 mile run. Happily, my efforts seem to be paying off: my times up hills and in speed intervals are a wee bit faster than they've ever been, and every second saved per mile is a big deal when you multiply it by 26.2. For the first time in my life, I actually have noticeable definition to my arms, which pleases me to no end when flexing in front of my mirror at home. My knees don't ache like they used to after a long run. I'm hoping that all of this will lead to a PR at Missy.

Still, I could be doing more: I don't stretch enough after runs (I'd rather drink my coffee); I haven't done yoga in months (boring); and I could easily stand to do another one or two core workouts per week (but at least I'm doing two right now). And if I really want to be a stronger, faster, more resilient runner, I know that I could add exercises like plyometrics to the mix. I never watch what I eat or drink, but I'm certain that, if I did, I'd probably lose five pounds and, in turn, five minutes off my PR. After reading about Kara Goucher's weekly training schedule in this month's Runner's World (110 miles per week, plus loads of strength work to boot), what I'm doing seems rather unimpressive indeed.

In some respects, I'm not that concerned. I'm not, after all, training for the Olympics, let alone hoping to win my age group in a race. I'm relatively fit, I never miss a workout, and I see modest improvements year after year. Why should I compare myself to Kara Goucher, a supremely gifted professional who devotes all of her time and energy to running? Are my accomplishments as a runner worth less because I'm simply not as fast and don't train as much or as hard, and no major sports brand would ever pay me to wear their clothing line? Or are they, perhaps, worth more, at least to me, because everything I've accomplished thus far has been against the odds?

Ten years ago, I would never have dreamed of calling myself an "athlete." (That still feels like a bit of an overstatement, but perhaps describing myself as "athletic" isn't so far from the truth.) Sports have never come naturally to me. I'm not very coordinated, I'm rather slow on the track, and I wasn't blessed with a naturally svelte physique. I've always been the academic one who got straight As and full scholarships. But I realize now, after 7+ years of running devotion, that, because I never had to struggle in school, it never brought me the same level of satisfaction as I now get through running. I feel absolutely heroic after I've run a "practice" 22 mile race on a Saturday morning or sprinted repeatedly up hills at 6 am in the freezing cold of winter. Every run is a challenge; every mile logged a victory. It is often the most difficult part of my day, and is therefore the most rewarding. I may not be that speedy and I could certainly always be doing more, but it's no secret that the first time I qualified for Boston ranks as the second most important day of my life (behind getting engaged to my husband, and ahead of actually marrying him; my husband knows this and, I think, understands).

It's wonderful to be naturally gifted at school or sports or music or art, and those gifts, when leveraged appropriately, can take one far in life. To others, they may seem to be the most impressive thing about a person. But a true sense of accomplishment, at least for me, has been found where I would have least expected it. Running has taught me that the things at which I have to try the hardest are usually the ones that will bring me the greatest joy.