Bring It On

This past weekend was the annual Surf City Marathon in beautiful Huntington Beach, and as most of you know I had been training for 2 months to break 2 hours in the half-marathon. Over the last couple of weeks I had several set backs, all tumor related and absolutely annoying. A spine tumor made it difficult for me to breath, and when I ran at the speed necessary to reach my goal time my ribs would cramp under painfully until I was forced to stumble to a stop on the side of the road, clutching my side and sucking in air. I realized breaking 2 hours may not be possible right now, but I had to at least do my best. Surf City is not an official NF Endurance Team event, but several of my friends on the team have formed the unofficial NFET California Dreamin' Team and that was all of the motivation I needed to put on my running shoes and paint that course yellow!

Paul and I left the kids with a friend and showed up in Huntington Beach for the expo Saturday. We met up with friends, grabbed our bibs and timing chips, and escaped for a margarita at Fred's Cantina. Later that night my friend John was awesome enough to host a dinner at his home, 8 of us crowded around his table for pasta and stories. As usual our collective health statuses left much to be desired, but morale was high and the wine flowed freely. By the time we all hugged good night I couldn't wait for race morning.

Paul, John and I actually went to the Santa Ana Artwalk for a bit after dinner to visit a gallery showing the work of my friend Tyoni who does my tattoos. Totally random bit of information, but it was fun and her art is beautiful. I just wanted to rip it off the wall and transfer it to my skin. After dropping John back off at home, Paul and I crashed his friend Fred's couch and caught a bit of sleep.

Before we knew it it was 6am, and I popped right off that couch ready to attack the course! I yanked on my Bad Ass running socks, comfy purple running shoes, my fave black running shorts, my Nike Sports band, my new running hat that says "Some girls chase boys, I pass them," a ton of Glide, and finally my bright yellow NF Endurance Team singlet. I cleaned up and smeared on sunblock, by 6:10 I told Paul I was ready to rock! We drove down to the parking lot and caught a shuttle right to the race. 20,000 people milled about, some stretching, others doing quick sprints to warm up. I shook my legs out and took a deep breath. Suddenly Paul noticed people moving and told me I better get running. I planted a big sloppy kiss right on his mouth, and took off running toward the start line.

Most of these major race events line everyone up in waves by declared goal finish time. I have done my time being in the back 2 or 3 waves, but not this race. As I jogged to my starting spot I passed thousands of runners crowding around pacing signs. 3:00, 2:45, 2:30... I stretched my neck and searched for the big 2:00 pacing group, but the line had already started moving and before I could get left behind I jumped in with the 2:04 pacing group. The leader was a young girl wearing a horrible blue plaid running skirt. As we crossed the start line I turned my sportsband on and set it to the chronograph. I breathed in deeply through my nose and forcefully out of my mouth and focused on the road ahead of me.

The first mile of a race is always interesting. There are always a few jerks who just refuse to stick to their wave group and walk right smack in the middle of the course, causing dangerous traffic for all of the people running at the correct pace. There are always people who go running by with the oddest running styles, one hand sticking straight out, feet dragging or even moving in circles in front of them like a cartoon character. As soon as you see them, they pass you and are gone. Surf City runs along PCH and the ocean breeze urged me on as I hit my stride. I felt a slight twitch in my ribs and went into denial mode, as I passed the 1 mile mark I noted 10 minutes had gone by already. I was 30 seconds behind my 9:30 pace, but the first mile is always a warm up so I was not concerned. As I set into a rhythm my rib cage flummoxed against my skin and I instinctively reached to hold the pain. I quickly realized that if I shoved 2 fingers right into the cramp and breathed deeply, the pain would recede until I could breathe normally again. Armed with this new tactic I picked up the pace, and every 2 or 3 minutes as the stitch came back I would roughly press it in with my fingers. Somehow I had become one of those crazy people running along with an elbow sticking out randomly. I could have cared less, as I neared the 2 mile mark a glance at my sportsband showed 19:30. I had run the second mile on pace and was feeling fabulous. I tried to relax and enjoy the scenery, forcing my mind to zone out rather then counting steps. At mile 3 the course took a sharp turn to the right as I knew it would, and until halfway through mile 5 it was all uphill. I love hills, I settled into a steady type of march and pushed onward. I thought back to the previous year when I had walked the half with my friend Giselle, I wasn't worried about my finishing time and knew it would be fun to complete the course together. I wished for a moment she was there again for the company, but knew that this year I had to run my own race. Suddenly the hill ended and I found myself at the top of a neighborhood looking out over a small inlet of water covered in a thick fog. It was beautiful, and as I turned downhill again I let myself fall forward with the incline, picking up my pace as the hill descended until I had again reached PCH and the course turned back to it's original direction. I was at mile 6 and almost at the one hour mark. I was about halfway there and starting to tire. I took my first drink of the race at the 6.5 mile hydration station, curving the little paper cup to my lips and sipping it down as it splashed all over me. I tossed the cup toward the massive pile of discarded cups and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, all without breaking stride. I spotted the 2:04 pacing team again and fell in line with them. Every time I tried to pass them they ended up passing me again, until finally I resigned myself to their rhythm and fell in line. Its hard to describe miles 8-12 of a half marathon to anyone who has never done an endurance event. My adrenaline wore off, the caffeine ran out, and as excited as I was to run this race I was ready for it to be over. Instead of slowing down as my body wanted to, I knew I had to maintain or increase my pace for 5 or 6 more miles. At this point I started a meditative kind of thought process, urging myself forward and ignoring the pain that had settled over my entire body. Dull pain was expectable, and I welcomed it, knowing that pain is weakness leaving the body. Right around mile 10 the pain went from dull to sharp in 3 seconds flat. My left foot started to cramp and slowly curl in under itself. I tried to keep running for about 2 steps before I stumbled to the side and jammed my foot against a curb trying to force it to flatten back out from the painful ball it had hunched into. Within seconds I was loping along, trying to relax my foot and keep all of the tension in my core. I snatched the energy gel from my hydration belt... which is really the same thing as a fanny pack... I ripped the top off the package and squeezed the goo into my mouth, willing the electrolytes and potassium to relieve the cramp. I successfully ran another sub-10 minute mile and realized I was almost at the finish! At mile 12 my foot cramped horribly again, I again tried to ignore it but it curled under. I came to a halt on the curb, cursing like a sailor and shaking out my foot. I looked longingly down the course at the finish line, I couldn't make it out through all the fog but it still taunted me. I took a deep breath and just ran. I saw the pacing group and ran right past them. I couldn't even look at my time, I was too busy willing my feet to bounce off the road as hard as possible, propelling me forward against all probability. I was moving maybe around 9 minutes a mile but in my heart I was flying down that course. As the final stretch loomed into view spectators crowded the sidelines. Girls in hoola skirts waved signs that read "Nice Legs" and "You have stamina, CALL ME!" Children sat on their father's shoulders holding signs that said "RUN MOMMY RUN!" They all blurred into a line of color rushing past on either side as the big Finish Line banner came into view above my head and with a smashing step over the finish line I jammed my thumb into the stop button on my sportsband and looked down. 2:06. I sucked in air and accepted a medal and banana from volunteers. I stopped for the first time in over 2 hours and stretched deeply. For some reason I thought of the movie Bring It On. A National Championship team of cheerleaders goes back to defend their title, but a better team wins and after all of their hard work they earn 2nd place. As they accept their trophy they look at each other and say "Second place?" and with a smile they erupt in cheers and scream BRING IT ON! Bring it on, indeed.

I fought my way out of the finisher's holding pen and found Paul, I gave him a big sweaty hug and just pointed toward the beach. I ripped off my running shoes and hobbled barefoot toward the ocean. I walked right in and let the ice cold water numb my swollen feet before realizing just how cold it was and rushing back out. I ran back to give Paul a kiss then ran toward the surf again, this time letting the water reach above my knees and rush all around me. I took in the horizon and slowly withdrew from the waves. I stretched on the beach, not caring that wet sand stuck allover my skin. I went through my entire yoga routine right there, on the sand, with the water snaking up to my fingers as it reached out for me.

Finally I got cleaned up, and we found our way back to the team. We waited for everyone to finish and then said our good-byes. As always, when it comes down to the important moments in my life only Paul was left. We held hands tightly and headed for the shuttle. No matter how far I run, I always end up back at home.

Race Standards

Surf City is just 2 weeks away, and I find myself measuring everything by race standards. Two weeks is really 2 more long distance runs. Food is seen as fuel and water as hydration. Everyone I hang out with drinks beer and I politely decline each offer, even when I rest my mind's eye is focused on my goal.

The first time I ran a half marathon I finished in I believe 2:35. I was happy with that time, because your first race is always a PR! After a few more mediocre attempts and a year of sluggish training runs I logged a 2:18 at San Francisco. I will never forget the feeling of running across the Golden Gate bridge and realizing I was flying. The hills of San Francisco fought hard, but that day I won. I have steadily improved since then, taking time off as necessary for life, but last month when I ran in Las Vegas and clocked 2:05 I knew a sub-2 hour half was within my reach.

Last week I finished my 10 mile training run in 94 minutes, just 4 minutes shy of the pace I would need to sustain to reach my goal. When I set out this morning for another 10 miler I had only one goal in mind, to improve on last week's time. I knew I may not hit 90mn exactly, but as long as there was forward momentum I would be satisfied. I started out strong, clipping miles at exactly 9:00 and 18:00, but by mile 3 my old friend Side Stitch decided to tag along for the ride. I tried to fix my posture, my breathing, my form... but every time I sped up to the necessary 9mn per mile pace my side cramped until I was forced to slow down and wait for it to subside. At mile 3 my stopwatch was already past the 30mn mark, and I knew I was in for a long 10 miles. I always chant to myself as I run. Usually I say "Pain is weakness leaving the body," or if someone passes me I say "Run your own race." By mile 7 I was telling myself "Just do your best," and praying I would at least be able to hit a 10mn per mile pace. On the shaded parts of the trail I would begin to perk up, but that mid morning hot sun was stalking me and I found myself dragging across a blistering half mile stretch of heat. I finally reached the end of the run in 1:45 and trudged back to my van unsure of if I was capable of breaking 2 hours at Surf City in just 2 short weeks.

I wonder why I even do this to myself? The last 4 miles of that run were incredibly miserable, and my back is in a series of knots and pain that are only going to stiffen by morning. I could stop, quit, give up and give in. How different would life really be? Then I remember that feeling on the Golden Gate bridge, I remember looking at my watch in Vegas and realizing I had clipped my PR by 13 minutes, I remember when I "ran" the full marathon in Las Vegas and saw all of my family screaming for me at the finish, and my kids running on their little legs with huge smiles, ready to cross the finish line with me. I remember all the friends I have made on the NF Endurance Team, the pasta dinners, the expos, the photos and the medals. I remember every race morning, the anticipation while the Star Spangled Banner played, barefoot men covering their hearts next to war vets running in camo and soccer Moms in tutus. All of the amazing people I have seen on the course, people getting married while running in Las Vegas, an 80 year old man passing me in Long Beach, the Pacific ocean in Surf City. I remember every finish line, how it seemed so unattainable, but the harder I worked the closer it got. All of those final stretches, no matter how tired I was or how long I had been limping, at every race I reached down deep into my gut and ran like I stole something for a big finish. At every finish there was a smile on my face so big my cheeks hurt because no matter how many thousands of people had crossed over before me, I had won my own race. I had done my best and never given up.

I never will give up, I'll run until I can't run anymore, and nobody can stop me. Not a cramp, not a stop watch, not the heat, and not the back pain. For all of my chanting there is only one that really matters, "Never Give Up."

Prepared

There are four weeks left until I hit the half-marathon at Surf City for the 3rd year in a row! The NF Endurance Team does not participate in this event officially, but we will still have several mavericks running strong in their yellow singlets, including me of course! I have spent the last 2 weeks lounging with my kids, eating with my family, and running 5K distances on the treadmill. After finishing the Las Vegas half marathon in 2:05 in early December I assumed this all would be adequate to keep my fitness level strong enough to hit the ground running this week in preparation for Surf City.

I set out this morning on a 10 miler with a goal of finishing in exactly 1:30 at a 9mn a mile pace. I stepped outside the door and the cold air smacked me right in the face. I shrugged it off, assuming that I would warm up as I acclimated but by the time I dropped both kids off at their respective schools the chill had settled deep into my bones. There was no friggin' way I was going to run 10 miles with my breath frozen in my lungs! I headed straight for the gym, resigned to my fate of slogging out a tedious 10 miles on the dreaded treadmill. I cheered up when I realized I would be able to manage my pace more efficiently and even had lofty ideas of running an entire 13.1 miles as I watched Regis and Kelly on the big screen. I calculated in my head that if I want to run 13.1 miles in 2 hours, I need to run 6.55 miles in 1 hour, and cranked the treadmill up to a 6.6 mph pace. By the end of the first mile I was sweating, and at the end of the second I was already focusing on breathing correctly instead of hyperventilating. I took a water break at 30 minutes and accepted that I would have to scale back if I did not want to risk an injury. I ran another 30 minute increment, varying the pace in an attempt to squeeze in a bit more distance, and finally finished in exactly 1 hour at the 6.55 mark. I gasped for air and almost lost the bit of pineapple bread I had eaten just 90 minutes earlier. That seemed like a lifetime away as I held onto the bar of the machine and waited for my head to stop swimming. I finally cooled down, then trotted upstairs for some punishment. Not completing my goal mileage at race pace was a smart decision, I remember my knee injury all too well and do not want to repeat history. I still hate the fact that I fell short of a goal. I went over all of this in my mind as I went through my entire weight routine and cranked out extra leg-lifts. I did my best for today and left it all on the treadmill, all I can do is respect the distance and keep on running. If I add 15mn each week of January to the run I completed today, I still have a chance of breaking 2 hours in Surf City. No excuses, no whining, no tears.

Just keep moving...

I have been allowing myself to bounce between wallowing and denial over the last month. On normal days I sleep in as much as possible and pop the anti inflammatory that masks a bit of the pain. On holidays, or any time my children start to suspect a crack in their Mommy, I suck it up and play house for them. Paul has felt the weight of the situation more than anyone, as I try to sleep at night and am restless from the cramping I toss, turn, and sigh. Paul is the one who reaches over and just strokes my back gently for a moment before falling into a deep sleep, his limp hand warm and heavy.

I finished the medication my doctor suggested, which helped when I took it, but I refuse to take narcotics daily. Instead I have allowed myself a break from anything not absolutely necessary. JT and Mica had their 2 week Winter Break, and we spent the entire time just existing together. Waking groggily late in the morning, eating as we felt like it, and looking up in surprise from the couch when Paul returned home from work. I didn't run, or even think about carbs and crunches.

At some point I knew the holiday would end, and yesterday when the alarm went off at 7:30 I was pretty sure that it had. I had the kids off to school, completed a 6 mile run, and cleaned the house all before noon! I felt invigorated and accomplished, and even though the cramping still plagued me I knew it could not control me. Only what you allow to control you will do so, and I am done being controlled by pain and fear. I have 4 weeks until my next race, the 1/2 marathon at Surf City. I can either cancel and sit in pain and depressed, or push myself and cross that finish line in pain and elated.

*Never Give Up*