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Midsummer Night’s Run: Conquering the Monster

I run for many reasons, one of which is to raise funds for autism services. This is to benefit children like my son George, who was diagnosed with autism just over five years ago. But it is also to benefit kids like my younger son James – the siblings, the people who are born into a highly responsible position, regardless of birth order. If there is funding for autism services, everyone benefits, and maybe – just maybe – more resources become available for sibling programs and services.

All of my posts here this week – including this race report – are dedicated to the amazing sibling in my family, my son James.

Anyone on my Facebook friends list will be able to tell you how much I was dreading this weekend’s Midsummer Night’s Run. I was dreading it to the point of wondering if I should even bother to pick up the race kit. I had run two races on this course, including last year’s Midsummer Night’s Run, and I had performed dismally in both of them. This 15K route, which had endless monotonous stretches and virtually no spectator support, seemed to be my personal nemesis.

I signed up for the race thinking it would be my opportunity to set things straight, to defeat this course once and for all. And for a while I was optimistic. I have been having a phenomenal racing season – by far my best since my return to running in 2009.

But as the race drew near, my anxiety levels started to increase. Memories of last year’s Midsummer Night’s Disaster kept plaguing me, I had several rough training runs in a row, and I had some stressful things happening in the non-running areas of my life. Instead of the usual pre-race jitters that I usually get a bit of a kick out of, all I felt was pure dread. A sense of doom.

Chaos at home on the morning of the race did not help my cause. The kids were awake and at war with each other by eight in the morning, resulting in me having to spend much of the day in a peacekeeping kind of role (seriously, when the United Nations needs ambassadors, they should seek out mothers). Before I knew it, it was almost time to leave for the race and I had nothing ready. I didn’t even know where my running clothes were. I scrambled around and dug up clean running clothes and threw them on. I packed a backpack with fuel belt, water, a frantically made peanut butter sandwich, and my race bib (which I remembered at the last minute). I panicked when I couldn’t locate my hat, and ended up leaving without it.

I got to the start area with plenty of time to spare, and I started to relax a little. There was a lady in a booth selling hats, so I bought one and then sat on the grass, letting the pre-race energy work its magic on me. By the time I lined up at the start, I wasn’t exactly feeling optimistic, but the sense of dread was at least lifting.

Let me pause my account for a moment to describe the route. From the start, you run east along a stretch of road for about 2K. Then you turn right onto a path called the Leslie Street Spit and run all the way to the end of a man-made peninsula. You go around a lighthouse and then back to the start.

The stretch along the Leslie Street Spit is very picturesque in places, but it is very desolate, and it feels as if it will never end. If you’re looking for crowd support, you’re not getting it there. No-one lives down there and at night it’s kind of off the beaten path.

When I ran this race last year, I was already exhausted when I turned onto the Leslie Street Spit, a mere 2K into the race. By the time I went around the lighthouse, I was huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, and wondering how on earth I would make it all the way back to the start.

This time round, I checked off the first 2K with ease. I was aiming to beat 1:40 and had a moment of anxiety when I found myself alongside the 1:45 pace bunny in the second kilometre. I soon left her behind though: I have a feeling the bunny started out too quickly and adjusted her pace accordingly.

At the 3K mark there was an aid station. I chugged a cup of Gatorade and continued on my way. I was watching my pace closely, sticking to 6:30 min/km as well as I could. I resisted the temptation to break away, and instead used the runners around me as pace bunnies.

The kilometres ticked over one by one. I kept waiting for the fatigue of last year to set in, but to my amazement, it just didn’t happen. I breezed my way around the lighthouse and even managed a smile for the photographer lurking in the grass (who looked a bit like Hagar the Horrible minus the horns and the Viking d0g). I coasted along a gravelly section that I distinctly remember wanting to throw up on last year.

Throughout, my pace barely wavered from 6:30 min/km. With about 5K to go, I decided that it would be worth kicking it up a notch. Just one notch, though. I wasn’t ready for an all-out sprint just yet.

When I passed the final aid station, I knew that I was about a minute from turning off the Leslie Street Spit and re-entering civilization. I thoroughly enjoyed the last 2K, smiling and waving at spectators who were kind enough to cheer as I passed.

With 1K to go, I started to hear the noises of the finish line. Now I was ready for all-out sprint, and I had plenty of energy to put into my finishing kick. I rounded the final corner, sprinted down the home stretch and made it over the finish line with energy left in the tank and the clock reading 1:36:25 – an improvement of 13 minutes over last year’s time.

I think I can safely say that I have defeated the monster. My personal nemesis is no more.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

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Running: Breaking A Personal Barrier

My Distance Enjoyment Chart

Yesterday morning I went for a 17km run.

As usual, I didn’t get enough sleep the night before. As usual, I seriously questioned the sanity of what I was doing as I got ready. And as usual, I ended up enjoying the run far more than I had thought I would.

Whenever I’m ramping up my distance, 17km is a milestone distance. If you were to plot my enjoyment of distances on a graph, the line would rise steadily from 5km to 10km. Then it would start to drop, and the lowest point would be at 16km – a distance that for whatever reason is hell for me. After 16km, the line climbs and reaches its highest point at 21.1km – the half-marathon distance.

So 17km is like a magic number for me. It means that I have broken the ugly 16km barrier at which I never really know how to pace myself, and I am free to run true to my natural style.

I knew going into the run that it might be a challenge. Two decades ago I sustained a serious injury to my left ankle that flares up from time to time. On Saturday night, I had woken up multiple times feeling as if someone was sticking a red-hot skewer right into the centre of my ankle joint. Sure enough, when I started running on Sunday morning, my foot felt a little tender. In addition, my left hamstring was a little tight, probably due to the fact that I added hill training to my routine last week.

I ran anyway, reasoning that I could always stop if I had to, and yet knowing that I wouldn’t. Little aches and pains that I feel at the start of a run have a way of disappearing as I loosen up.

Apart from a couple of little twinges, I pretty much forgot about the pain in my ankle. The hamstring never really loosened up, but it didn’t get worse either, and I was able to pace myself more or less consistently throughout the 17km. I had my usual difficulties at the usual times, and got through it as I always do: positive self-talk, upbeat music, and a reminder that my whole reason for running is to raise funds for autism.

It’s amazing how the thought of doing something for your kids can put things into perspective. My son lives with the challenges of autism day in and day out, and it will be this way for the rest of his life. Surely, surely, I can cope with the challenges of running for a couple of hours once a week.

And so I finished my 17km, and returned home to be greeted by the child who motivates me to do all of this. This little dude is the only person in the world who can hug me fiercely without caring that I have 17km worth of sweat and salt all over me. Sure, it’s a little gross, but at the same time it’s totally endearing.

After the run I may not have felt as good as new, but I was in reasonable enough nick. My hamstring hurt like the blazes for the rest of the day and I needed to stay off my ankle as much as possible, but I felt the sense of triumph that always comes after a successful long run.

My next long run will be 19km, and I say: BRING IT!

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Is Finishing The Race A Good Enough Goal?

When I came back to running two and a half years ago, I came back from a zero-level of physical fitness. For several years my body had been completely devoted to growing babies and then nursing them. My mind had been devoted to trying to survive post-partum depression, the loss of my father, and my son’s autism diagnosis. With everything that I had going on, physical fitness just wasn’t on my list of priorities.

Therefore, when I started running again, speed was not an issue for me. My only goal was to simply get out there and complete whatever distance I was aiming for. Standing at the start line of my first half-marathon for autism, I was realistic enough to know that I wasn’t going to be a speed demon. I did not aim for any particular time. I just wanted to finish the race; I did not care how long it would take me.

Since that first half-marathon, I have run 12 more races. My approach to each of them has been the same: stumble across the finish line in whatever time I can manage. I have looked at my races not so much as competitive events, but as training runs with added zing.

Two weeks ago, though, I came to within a minute of my 10K PB (personal best) at the Energizer Night Race. This was a race run at night, on narrow park trails, with this weird headlight thing on my head. Most amazing of all, I actually had energy to spare when I crossed the finish line.

That race was a turning point for me in two ways. The first was that it made me re-evaluate the role of music in my runs. The second was that it made me ask the question: if I can put in a performance like that without really trying, what will I able to accomplish if I push myself beyond what I am used to?

I have been a somewhat complacent runner, being happy with just finishing the race. I still advocate that approach very strongly for beginner runners. But I am not really a beginner anymore. Perhaps it is time for me to start pushing the boundaries a little.

Tomorrow: read about how a change in race strategy this weekend worked out for me.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tdd/3524924669. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)