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My Message To Runners

April 16, 2013 By

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To my fellow runners,

There are no words to describe how I feel following the events in Boston yesterday. It hits very close to home for us runners. Our beloved sport – our refuge and escape, the thing that keeps many of us feeling safe and grounded when things are hard – has been targeted in such a violent way. This has affected the entire running community – not only the runners themselves, but race organizers and volunteers, and those people who make races truly special and memorable: the friends and family members who stand on the sidelines cheering us on as we race for the finish line.

I cannot imagine what it must have been like for those of you who were there in Boston, running the race. To those of you who crossed the finish line, I hope that amid the chaos and the sadness and the shock, you can hold onto the fact that you accomplished something incredible. Don’t let the perpetrators of this terrible act take the victory away from you.

To those of you who were forced to abandon the race, I hope you will be able to return another day to finish what you started. The Boston Marathon will be back – I hope you will too. Claim that victory that you so richly deserve.

To those who were injured, whose loved ones were injured, who are now having to say goodbye to friends and family members who lost their lives, my heart breaks for you. You are all in my thoughts as you try to rebuild your lives, recover from the injuries and adjust to a whole different life.

The people who did this want us to be afraid. They want us to either abandon our races or approach finish lines with fear. They want us to give up.

Clearly, they underestimate our ability to band together  and fight back. They forget that we train our bodies and minds to accomplish great things no matter what obstacles lie in our way. They don’t factor in our stubbornness, our absolute determination to get ourselves across that finish line, no matter what.

Afraid? Don’t be ridiculous.

Let’s come back from this stronger than we’ve ever been before. Let’s train harder, race stronger and celebrate more joyously when we cross the finish line. Let’s make it clear that we will not let anyone bully us into hanging up our running shoes. Let’s make sure every race is full to capacity.

My friend Phaedra, who ran the Boston Marathon yesterday, said this: “A marathon is supposed to be about the triumph of the human spirit, not about senseless violence.”

We can and will make the human spirit rise up and lift us above this tragedy. The people with the bombs are cowards. We are the ones with the strength and courage.

And we are the winners.

Regards,
Just another runner

Filed Under: Boston Marathon, Race, running, Tragedy Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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Race Report: Angus Glen Ten-Miler

April 13, 2013 By

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I had a tough choice for  today’s blog post. On the one hand, today’s prompt for the Health Activist Writers Month Challenge calls for poetry. On the other hand, I have not yet written a race report for last weekend’s race.

My attempts at writing poetry are painful. So was last weekend’s race.

See? Tough choice.

In the end, I decided that in writing poetry, I’d be inflicting pain on those who I expect to read it. Whereas, if I write the race report, others can simply laugh at my pain without actually experiencing it.

There were a lot of challenges going into last weekend’s race, not the least of which was the fact that I was undertrained. There were other factors counting against me as well, like the weather, the fact that this race was on a golf course riddled with hills, and the fact that I was expecting myself to run 16km on my least favourite day of the month. I’ll spare you the details, but on certain days, some women experience what I will euphemistically call “discomfort” while running.

I was determined to do it, though. For one thing, I already had to blow off a race not long ago because of an injury. And for another thing, the Angus Glen Ten-Miler is one of the more expensive races. If I was going to pay a lofty registration fee, I might as well have the pain to show for it at the end.

And so I stood at the start line with absolutely no goal other than to finish. I placed myself in the last corral, because let’s face it, I wasn’t going to be a speed demon. As I waited for race to start, I did what I often do at start lines: I looked around trying to spot people who looked like they might be in worse shape than me. Not very sportsmanlike, I know, but some days, we all take what we can get to make ourselves feel less bad.

The race started, and the first couple of kilometres came and went without incident. I set out at a reasonable pace and loosened up nicely. Fortunately, the rain abated, and I was able to enjoy about ten minutes of quite nice running conditions before the wind showed up and kept me company for the rest of the run.

Along with the wind came the hills. I had known that there would be hills on this course, and I had done what I thought was adequate hill training, but nothing could have prepared me for that elevation profile. The uphills and downhills alike were brutal, and by the time I reached the halfway point, my quads were absolutely shredded.

Just as I started to question whether I would be able to finish this race, I encountered a line of Porta-potties. I never ever make pitstops during races. They are races, after all, and the whole point of racing is to get the finish line as fast as possible. This time, though, I knew that I was not going to come close to a personal best. There seemed little point in adding the discomfort of a full bladder to my already long list of woes. So I went in, did what I had to, and resumed the run feeling just as sore, but at least a little more comfortable.

The second half of the race was just plain ugly, but strangely enough I felt that I was accomplishing something really fantastic. This feeling came from the fact that I was going purely on mental strength. This was unquestionably a case of mind over matter, and come hell or high water, my mind was going to win.

After what felt like an eternity, I found myself with 500m to go. I had long since resigned myself to the fact that the finishing kick I pride myself on would not happen, but I had been wrong! As my body started to pick up on the finish line excitement ahead of me, I felt that familiar surge of energy that always happens at the end of a race. Lord alone knows where that energy came from, but it coursed through my legs, and I sprinted across the finish line.

Technically, this was my worst-ever ten-miler. But I still feel that this was one of my greatest races. If I can run ten miles without adequate training on an exceptionally hilly course with high winds, while not feeling well, then I can do anything. I have this strange sense that this race has set me up for a phenomenal season, more so than a personal best time would have. Because this race was a true test of mental endurance, and in crossing the finish line, I passed the test.

At the end of the day, the race was well worth the high registration fee. The swag was really good. The race kit included some very nice things, and instead of getting yet another ill-fitting technical T-shirt, I got a very nice fleece-lined running jacket. I also like the finisher’s medal a lot (and this one will count as one of my favourites because of how hard I worked for it), and a full sit-down lunch was provided at the end.

I might run this race again. In fact, I’m pretty sure I will. I have a new nemesis, and I am determined to conquer it.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Angus Glen Ten-Miler, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Race Report: St. Patrick’s Day 5K

March 21, 2013 By

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Three weeks ago, my sports medicine guy told me that I was not to run the half-marathon that I was registered for the following weekend. Through my own stupidity, I had aggravated my old ankle injury, and the doctor practically guaranteed that if I ran that that half-marathon, I would be out for the rest of the season.

If I behaved myself (in other words, if I followed doctor’s orders), I would be allowed to run the St. Patrick’s Day 5K. So I scaled back my training and paced myself more appropriately. When the doctor told me to run on the treadmill, I ran on the treadmill. I only ventured out onto the road when he said I could. I behaved impeccably, and sure enough, I was cleared for takeoff. When I asked the doctor if he wanted me to exercise any caution during the race or if I could just go hell for leather, he said, “Run like you stole something.”

All right, then.

If I was going to run like I stole something, I might as well have fun with it. I decided to dress up a little, in keeping with the spirit of St. Paddy’s Day. And so on the morning of the race, I got onto the subway with temporary Irish-themed tattoos all over my face, ridiculous green-and-white striped socks going all the way up to my knees, and green and orange hair extensions attached to my hat. I didn’t even stand out. Torontonians – even those not of Irish descent – take St. Paddy’s Day very seriously, so I blended right in. It was the people dressed normally who stuck out like sore thumbs

I got to the start line with about half an hour to spare. Usually I like to arrive at races at least an hour ahead of time, but it was icy cold, so I was glad to have less time for standing around. I checked my bag and did some half-hearted warm-ups. After my injury, I wasn’t really expecting to be a speed demon at this race. My goal was to beat 32 minutes.

Ten minutes before the start, I stood at the start line among about a thousand other runners, almost all of whom were dressed for the occasion. It was fun to see all the leprechaun hats and bright green wigs. The starting siren went, and we were off.

My strategy was simply to go as fast as I could, but I got boxed in by the crowds at first. I was only really able to take off after 500 metres or so. The course was pleasant: downtown Toronto is kind of flat, so I was able to go at a fairly consistent pace. The mood was festive throughout. Runners were laughing and joking, admiring each other’s outfits, and cheering each other on. Some had liquid in their water bottles that looked suspiciously like beer.

The best part of the race was the inspiration I drew from the runners around me. The Saint Patrick’s Day run is organized in support of Achilles Canada, an amazing organization that enables people with disabilities to be athletes. There were a lot of runners on the course with a variety of challenges. There were blind athletes running with guides, people in wheelchairs, double amputees with prosthetics.

It was humbling to witness the enthusiasm and dedication of these athletes. I felt truly honoured to be among them.

I was absolutely spent at the end, and struggled to get through the last kilometre. But when the finish line came into view, I felt that magical surge of energy, and I was able to kick it up a notch, finishing in a time of 30:32.

Not bad for a post-injury first race of the season. I feel like this run has given me the kick-start I have been needing to start my season of training in earnest.

One final thought: the free post-race beer went down very well!

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Achilles Canada, Disability, Race, running, Saint Patrick's Day Run Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Race Report: Tannenbaum 10K

December 5, 2012 By

Rain at the start-line!

It did not look like a good day for a race. Truth be told, it did not even look like a good day for getting to the race. It was raining, the start-line was a good 12K or so from my house, and the wipers in my car were broken. Public transit does not run early enough on Sunday mornings, so I had no option but to cab it to the race. An expensive proposition with Toronto cab fares being what they are.

Good thing the race registration fee was so low.

By the time the cabbie dropped me off, it was raining harder. This was not the gentle, drizzly kind of rain that I actually enjoy running in. It was real rain, the kind that gets into your shoes and soaks your socks before the race has even started.

Fortunately, shelter near the start-line was plentiful. The race started on the Martin Goodman Trail beside the lake, and there is a big gazebo-thingie that seemed to have room for everyone. I stood there drinking my water, looking out at the weather and thinking I must be mad to be voluntarily running in this.

But that’s runners for you. I’d have shown up to the race in a blizzard.

The race was a small event with a strong community feel to it. There were about 500 runners braving the elements, and because of the reluctance of runners to emerge from the shelter, I thought the race would start late. But with two minutes to go before the start, we all lined up, and right on schedule, the starting siren went.

I expected this race to be a bit rough. I had not run in a while, and for about a week I had been staving off a bug. In addition, this was the day after my birthday and I had a birthday-related hangover. That plus the foul weather would surely make this one of my most dismal performances ever.

Sometimes, though, an enforced rest can work wonders. I did a great deal of running this season. I ran a lot of races and clocked up a whole new set of personal bests. After my half-marathon in October, I was tired. The break from running was just what I needed.

As soon as this race started, I felt great. There was none of the stiffness I was expecting, none of the discomfort that sometimes takes a mile or so to ease off. I got into my rhythm right away. I wasn’t going fast, you understand. I was never going to achieve a personal best on this particular day. But I maintained a respectable enough pace while jumping over puddles. After 3K or so I realized that the rain had let up, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

I ran the first half nice and steady – not fast, but not slow either. I was staying more or less with the middle of the pack. Somewhere between 4K and 5K there was a giant puddle pond going right across the road. There was no way around it. The only course of action was to go through it.

Or perhaps over it?

I approached this body of water thinking that I really didn’t want to soak my feet. I kicked up my speed a notch, and while runners all around me were splashing through the water, I made myself airborne and took a balletic leap over the puddle. By some miracle I managed to clear the water.

Shortly after that I reached the 5K turnaround point. The aid station there was a welcome surprise – the race website had advised runners that they should bring their own water. I gratefully accepted a cup, chugged it down, and started my return journey.

By this point I was starting to feel a little tired, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to repeat my impressive leap over the big puddle. But I only had about 4K to go, so I just ran through the section that seemed to have the least water.

I ran on, maintaining a reasonably steady pace, and all of a sudden I found myself with just 1K to go. I pride myself on my finishing kick, and so I decided to belt out that last kilometre as hard as I could.

After running most of the race at an average pace of about 6:40 minutes per kilometre, I ran the last kilometre in 5:23. Seems like my recent break from running hadn’t adversely affected my ability to sprint to the finish. I crossed the line with a time of 1:06:03. Not my best time, but definitely not my worst.

Small races are sometimes surprisingly well-organized, and this was definitely one of those. The marshalling was fantastic, and the course was accurate and well-marked. The volunteers manning the aid station were cheerful and friendly even though they had probably been there in the pouring rain getting set up. For a very reasonable registration fee, I got a warm winter hat and a finisher’s medal that ranks among my favourites. I was even lucky enough to win a draw prize, which was presented to me by none other than Santa Claus himself.

I have been searching for a late fall/early winter race to round out my running season, and with this one, I think I have found a gem.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Race, running, Tannenbaum 10K Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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My Three-Year Plan

November 3, 2012 By

In running, as in most areas of my life, I tend to be a goal-oriented person. Some people run just for the fun of it, but I need to have a purpose behind it, a goal to work towards. This, in addition to the addictive feeling of collective start-line energy, is the reason I run so many races. I will keep running through the winter because I have a half-marathon to work towards at the end of it. After that, there will be another half-marathon in the middle of the year. Then there will be my annual autism run in the fall.

I need these races to keep going. They give me the kind of discipline I would never find if left to my own devices. I sometimes procrastinate when it comes to actually deciding on the goals, but once I’ve made up my mind I’m very good at the follow-through.

For some time now I have been wavering about the idea of running a marathon. The full monty – the whole 26.2 miles or 42.2 kilometres. The whole cyclical thought process usually goes something like this:

My husband is driving me to the start of a half-marathon, and I am all excited and ready to go. I am caught up in the pre-race euphoria of it all, and I say to my husband that someday it would be really great to run a full marathon. I carry that thought with me to the start of my race. At the end of the race, when I’ve been running for over two hours and I am crying because of how sore my legs are, I say to my husband, “I must be nuts! Why would I want to put my body through a full marathon when I can’t even walk after a half-marathon? I think I’ll stick to shorter distances.” And then I recover from the half-marathon and the whole marathon train of thought starts all over again.

The truth is that I am not in good enough shape to run a marathon. There is a lot of work that has to be done to get me where I need to be. I need to sort out, once and for all, my intensely uncomfortable relationship with food and my body image issues. I have to lose weight, gain muscle, build up my physical and mental strength. It is a lot, but I can do it, especially if there is a prize – or a finisher’s medal – for me to work towards.

And so I recently set myself a goal: when I turn 45, I will give myself a marathon registration as a birthday present. At some point between December 1, 2014 and November 30, 2015, I will lace up whatever running shoes I am using then, and I will run a marathon.

Having set that goal, I had to decide on the marathon. This is likely to be something I do only once, so it has to be something really special, really meaningful. My first thought was a marathon somewhere in Johannesburg, South Africa, on my dad’s old stomping grounds from his own marathon days. Following in my dad’s footsteps – what could be more special than that? But considering that I live close to sea level and Johannesburg is at an altitude of several thousand feet, that would be really difficult. My body is so unused to running at high altitudes that I’m not convinced it would be achievable.

So where, then? New York? Chicago? Vancouver? Or should I stay close to home and run a marathon in Toronto?

A few days ago, I accidentally stumbled upon the website of the Cape Town Marathon. I took a look at the map of the course and was instantly plunged into Memory Lane. I am an alumnus of the University of Cape Town, and during my few years there a lot happened. I got myself a bachelors degree in psychology, and also did a lot of growing up. Not everything that happened to me there was good. In Cape Town, I was introduced to some ugly aspects of life. I got badly hurt there, and I also unwittingly hurt other people.

There is a lot of myself on those roads that make up the Cape Town marathon – a lot of memory and emotion. There is lost innocence, regret, a sense of wondering about how things would have turned out if.

If I return to Cape Town and run a marathon on those streets, will I be able to start confronting some of those demons that lie within me? Will it provide some degree of absolution for my past and clear a path for me to move forward? Will I feel the presence of my dad, whose ashes were scattered in the sea at Three Anchor Bay in Cape Town?

There is only one way to find out, and I have started to plot out a course of action – a three-year plan – to get me to that start line.

Cape Town Marathon, 2015. Here I come.

(Photo credit: Brightroom Professional Event Photographers)

Filed Under: goals, Half-Marathon, Marathon, Memories, National Health Blog Post Month, Race, running, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon: 2012 Run For Autism

October 17, 2012 By

It is raining and I am starting to get cold. I have already surrendered my jacket to the baggage check tent, so I am standing in this foul weather with shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt. There is no shelter and the only thing keeping the rain off my face is the peak of my hat. This is good. I cannot abide water on my face. The line-up for the Porta-potties – a standard feature of the starting area of every race – inches forward too slowly.

Soon I will be toeing the start line of my fourth Run for Autism, and I feel more than a little emotional as I think about the reason I am running this race. Every mile is dedicated to a child with autism, but really, this run is for all kids with autism everywhere.

I wrap my arms around myself and shiver, both from cold and anticipation.

It is starting to rain harder.

The morning of the race was a little chaotic, made worse by the rain. We had circled around city blocks for about forty minutes in search of somewhere affordable to park. As a result, my designated warm-up time was taken up by the Porta-potty line, and when I had done what I needed to do there, I warmed up by jogging from the Porta-potties to my place in the start line. The massive scale of this event meant that this was a reasonable jog – enough for me to satisfy myself that my tight left leg and niggling back pain wouldn’t hinder me during the race. At some point right before the race started, I noticed that the rain had let up, and the conditions were now perfect for a run.

A fair distance ahead of me, I heard the starting siren go off, signalling the release of the runners in the first corral. My friend and coach Phaedra was somewhere in that group, and I silently sent good wishes to her through the ether. I knew that by the time I crossed the start line, Phaedra would have done at least two kilometres, possibly closer to three.

The siren went off again, and the second wave of runners was off. My corral was next, and I shuffled forward with the crowd. Just as the anticipation was building up to an unbearable level, the announcer counted down to the start, the siren went, and we were off.

The course was different this year. In prior years, half-marathoners ran down to the Lakeshore and stayed there for most of the out-and-back route. This time round, the route took us around more of the city streets before turning onto Lakeshore. I like some variety in my routes, and I really enjoyed the changes.

For the first few kilometres, I comfortably stayed ahead of my target pace. I restrained myself from going out too hard, and I felt good. I had initially pondered the idea of running with a pace bunny, but I quickly dismissed that idea. I always worry that if I run with a bunny I will be running their race, when I really should be running my race. This season in particular, I have become a lot better at running smarter as well as faster, so I really didn’t need to pace myself against another runner.

Which is why I am somewhat baffled that when I unexpectedly found myself alongside the 2:10 bunny just before the halfway mark, I decided to stay with him. I was so caught up in the excitement of the day, and at that point I was feeling strong, and those two factors together probably sent any sense of logic out the window. As good as I was feeling, I had never intended to run this race at a 2:10 pace.

It worked for about 3K, but then I started to fade. I drifted to the other side of the road and let the bunny go, and for the next 5K or so, I was able to maintain my original pace.

The bad news is that the damage had been done. My efforts to stay with the pace bunny had made my tight left leg flare up, and the nagging little pain in the small of my back started to extend down my left buttock, where it intersected with the pain in my leg.

The good news is that by this point I only had 2K to go. My body was screaming at me to stop. I felt as if my leg was on fire, but the thought of all of those kids with autism, including my own child, kept me going. I was going to stop at nothing to finish this race.

The final kilometre can only be described as agony. My left leg was actually twitching and I was running at a limp. The finish line kick that I usually pride myself on was replaced with a series of stops and starts, but I did still manage to run across the finish line.

If victories are made sweeter by how hard you work for them, then this one was the sweetest of them all. Of all the half-marathons I have done, this one was definitely the hardest.

In spite of how tough those last kilometres had been, I still ran a personal best, crossing the finish line in a time of 2:17:31. I actually cried as the finisher’s medal was placed around my neck.

Tears of pain. Tears of joy. And most of all, tears of love for my son who is my inspiration.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Half-Marathon, Injury, Race, running, Running for Autism, Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Races Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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Race Report: Longboat Toronto Island Run

September 27, 2012 By

They said the weather would be cool. They, of course, being the weather forecasters. They said it would be slightly overcast with mild temperatures and a light breeze. Perfect weather, in other words, for a 10K run around Toronto’s Centre Island.

It certainly felt cool enough during the ferry ride over. When I took off my jacket to give to my six-year-old son James, whose sweater I had forgotten in the car, my arms were goosepimpling in the crisp cold air.

James was beside himself with excitement. He had been looking forward to this day for weeks. It was his first-ever ride on a ferry, and he was about to run his second race. I lined up beside him: he had asked me to run with him, and a 1K kids’ race would double as a handy warm-up for me.  A short distance with a bunch of six-year-olds – how hard could it be?

It turns out, very. Try running with a tribe of children who have just spent time cooped up on a ferry – you’ll see what I mean. They took off like bats out of hell, and I – half-marathoner who has been collecting PB’s like crazy this season – had trouble keeping up with my six-year-old son. The run was not officially timed, and the kids scampered off from the start line before I had time to set my watch, so I don’t know how fast James’ kilometre was. It was quick though – definitely quicker than the seven minutes he clocked up at his last race, which was impressive enough.

Then it was time for the start of my own race. I didn’t really have a time goal in mind – I rarely make PB’s on courses that I am not familiar with – but I wanted to just run and enjoy it. I knew the course would be flat so I figured that I would just let loose when I felt good enough and slow down when I felt tired.

It turned out to be a very hard run. This can be partly attributed to the weather – the cool day predicted by the weatherman turned out to be surprisingly warm, and I started out too fast. I was also recovering from a pulled hamstring, so I was not in the best physical condition.

Oh, and I also broke a basic rule of running: don’t try anything new on race day. I was using a brand new water bottle belt, and that turned out to be a bad idea. By the halfway point, my back was aching from the unaccustomed weight distribution. I was immensely relieved when I crossed the finish line in a time of 1:05:01. Not my best 10K performance, but not my worst either.

The course itself was nice, and I was quite impressed with how the race organizers managed to get a very decent 10K route out of a little island.

I will be back next year to improve on my time. James has said that he wants to do it again as well, and who knows – maybe my older son will even want to take part.

There are few things that beat a day with the family on an island on a sunny day, with a nice run thrown in.

Filed Under: Children, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Toronto Women’s 5K: Speed Demon Wannabe

August 30, 2012 By

Most runners have some specific distances that they seem to excel at. There’s no formula for it, really, it’s just a matter of personal style and preference. Some runners are sprinters and do very well in the 5K runs, where pacing strategies aren’t really used. Others do better in longer distances, like 10K and 10 mile races. Then there are those who are slightly insane and do half and full marathons.

We will not discuss the freaks of nature who do ultramarathons.

I myself have always gone for the mid-to longish distance races, varying between 10K and 21.1K (half-marathon). The only reason I have not attempted a full marathon is because I cannot commit the time to the training. But someday…

The point is that 10K is generally the shortest distance I run. The poor 5K distance has been shamefully neglected.

Last weekend I put that right. I decided, early on this season, to put at least one 5K race into my schedule. Although it seems like a humble distance for a half-marathoner, I realized that it could be a really good test of my ability to just run like hell for half an hour or so.

I went into the race with some specific goals. First, I had to beat thirty minutes. Second, I would only take one walking break and that would be going through the aid station. Finally, I would finish in the top 50%. This last one was going to difficult, because I really had no idea how the other 390 runners in this race were going to do. I have been a little frustrated of late, though. When I first made my big comeback to running just over three years ago, I was finishing races in the bottom third. Since then, my performance has steadily improved, but that top 50% has been eluding me. As great as my 15K race ten days or so ago was, I still missed the average finishing time by just a couple of minutes.

I knew that I would have to work hard to achieve my goals, primarily because I had been out with my husband the previous night and consumed almost a full bottle of wine. Yes, I confess that I lined up at the start with a hangover the size of a mountain. I felt dehydrated and a little ill, but if anything, this motivated me to run as fast as I could, so I could get this over with.

I took my place in the starting corral at the last minute, so I was further back than I really wanted to be. And so when the race started, I got caught in the crowd, and I wasn’t able to go out as fast as I wanted to.

After a bit of weaving and dodging I was able to break away a little. The first two kilometres passed in a bit of a blur, and when I got to the turnaround point, I realized that I was actually enjoying myself.

Nothing cures a hangover like an elevated heart rate and a ton of sweat. It was great.

I was easily maintaining my target pace, so I slowed down to walk through the aid station.

Actually, that’s a lie. The aid station was manned by delicious-looking firefighters. And when you’re trying to impress firefighters, you don’t walk during a race. Not, at least, where they can see you. Your inner show-off emerges, and you pick up the pace. And that is why I was moving at a sprint when I grabbed a cup of water from the most delectable of the young gents. I ran on, not caring that I was sloshing my water all over the place. When I rounded the bend, then I slowed to a walk.

I drank my water, allowed my heart rate to subside for twenty seconds or so, and then I was off, with just two kilometres to go.

I started to get tired, but I was still keeping up with my goal pace. I slowed down marginally, just for the sake of keeping enough gas in the tank for a strong finish.

When I entered the final kilometre, my legs wanted to fall off. But I kept moving. At my current pace, I would nail that last kilometre in five and a half minutes. I kept reminding myself of what my friend and coach Phaedra told me as she ran me to my half-marathon finish along this exact path three months ago: “You can do anything for five minutes.”

When I saw the finish line ahead of me, my legs kicked into overdrive. I crossed the line with the clock reading 30:02 and a chip time of 29:18.

So. Finish the race in under half an hour? Check. Although it would have been nice to actually see the clock reading under 30:00. Next time I will pay more attention to my start line position.

Only walk through the aid station? Check. Kind of.

Finish in the top 50%? Check! I came in 86th out of 391 runners, and out of 44 in my age group, I was 15th. I was well ahead of the average finishing time of 35:10.

On Saturday afternoon, feeling content and triumphant, I took a nap on my back deck. Because dammit, I deserved it!

(Photo credit: Ryder Photography)

Filed Under: Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Midsummer Night’s Run: Conquering the Monster

August 20, 2012 By

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)

Filed Under: Midsummer Nights Run, pacing, Race, running, Victories, Worry Tagged With: , , , , ,
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Race Report: Durham Quarter Marathon

July 22, 2012 By

Freshly soaked by a fire hose!

The Durham Quarter Marathon is the race that I almost didn’t register for. At 10.549 km, it’s such an odd distance. I’m not sure why this was a deterrent, considering that my favourite race distance is the half-marathon. 21.095 km is not exactly a round number. In the end, I registered for this race because I wanted to run a race in the middle of summer for the sake of hot weather training. I also reasoned that it would be a good benchmark for me, being exactly half the distance of my “A” race, which is coming up in October.

Then there was the cause: The Refuge, which helps homeless youth. Who wouldn’t want to run for such a great cause?

Leading up to the race, I started to feel a cold coming on. This happens to me so often that I have come to the conclusion that it’s all in my mind. It’s part of my mind trying to trick me into believing that my body is not capable.

My mind should know by now that I’m not letting a stupid cold stop me from running a race.  I ramped up the vitamins and fluid intake, and dealt with the guilt of missing a training run so I could rest. When I woke up on the morning of the race, I felt fine.

The race started at Oshawa City Hall, about two minutes’ walk away from free covered parking. I picked up my kit, pinned my bib to my shirt (no small feat considering my – um – curviness up top), and ate my pre-race snack with plenty of time to spare for warmups.

At the start line, I positioned myself about fifty feet behind the 1:05 pace bunny. My goal was based on average pace – I wanted to beat 6:15 minutes per kilometre. I had not worked out what total time that translated into, but I knew that if I stuck close to the 1:05 bunny I would make it.

By race standards, this one was quite small. There was no lack of enthusiasm, though, from the runners, the onlookers, or the race officials and volunteers.

There was a count-down, and then we were off! I didn’t really know what to expect. The race had been advertised as a net downhill course, but all that meant was that the start was at a higher elevation than the finish. It didn’t mean there wouldn’t be hills to climb. I had not seen either a route map or an elevation chart, so I didn’t really know how to pace myself.

So I started fast, staying close to the 1:05 bunny. Although I was still with him when the first kilometre ticked over, I decided to dial it back a little after that. I felt OK, but it was a fairly warm morning and I was well ahead of my goal pace. There was no need to knock myself out. I let the bunny go, figuring that I would probably catch up with him later.

Most of the race was run on park trails. This meant there was nice shade cover for much of the distance, and for the first few kilometres, there did seem to be more downhills than uphills. I had no trouble keeping ahead of my goal pace, and I was having a lot of fun. There weren’t enough runners around me to clog the path, but there were enough to maintain that race vibe that runners love to be a part of.

The aid stations were spaced at just the right intervals, and the course was dotted with signs that said things like, “Run like you just stole something” and “Don’t stop, people are watching”.  There were also some cheering squads along the route, blowing noisemakers and ringing bells. There was one man enthusiastically egging the runners on while holding a sign that said, “Go, random stranger, go!”

In the seventh kilometre, I saw what I now refer to as Monster Hill #1. It rose ahead of me like a personal Everest, and I saw the runners ahead of me slowing to a walk as they were defeated by this monster.

The show-off in me emerged. I was going to run all the way up this hill, as God was my witness. I didn’t care how slow I ran or how much my legs ached, I was not going to walk. I shortened my stride and started to make my way up, passing all of the runners who were walking. Sure, they’d probably all pass me at some point after the hill, but I didn’t care. I had a mission and that’s what I was focused on. All of a sudden, I was at the top and I felt great. I felt as if I had gone up that hill at the speed of mud, but it turned out to be one of my fastest kilometres.

All of that hill training and strength training that my friend and coach Phaedra made me do has clearly been paying off.

That hill took a lot of out me, and the going was rough after that. But with just a couple of kilometres to go, I was almost done.  Sometime during the eighth kilometre, what did I see in front of me? The 1:05 pace bunny! As far as I could tell, he was about thirty seconds ahead of me. If I could put on a burst of speed, I had a chance of catching him.

It was tempting, but I had to be careful. We were going into the ninth kilometre, and I wanted to leave enough for my finishing kick. I decided that catching the bunny would have to wait.

I turned onto a trail along the waterfront, rounded the corner, and saw…

… Monster Hill #2.

Seriously? When race directors map a route with a giant hill in the last couple of kilometres, are they just being sadistic?

I tried, people. I tried to approach Monster Hill #2 as I had approached Monster Hill #1. But I felt as if I had nothing left. I walked halfway up the hill and then ran up the rest of the way, and by time I got to the top, I was well and truly done. Ahead of me, like an oasis in the desert, I saw the final aid station. I walked through the aid station to get my heart rate down a little, and then picked up my pace again.

I had a little more than a kilometre to go. Ten minutes of running at the most. I could do it. I was hurting, but I kind of switched my mind off and just ran. I didn’t think I had anything left for a finish line kick, but at this point, if I made it across at a crawl I would be happy.

But right after the 10K marker, I started to hear finish line noises: cheering, and the sound of a voice through a loudspeaker. I turned a corner, and there ahead of me was the finish line. Without any conscious effort on my part, I felt my legs turning over faster, and I felt my stride lengthening.

I still had the finish line kick! I never managed to catch the pace bunny, but I only crossed the finish line about 30 seconds after him, finishing with a gun time of 1:05:45. My actual time was closer to 1:05:25.

My goal pace had been 6:15 min/km. My actual pace was 6:13 min/km. This race had definitely been a success. If I continue sticking to my training program, my goal of 2:15 for the half-marathon in October is achievable.

Shortly after crossing the finish line, some sexy firefighters doused me with their fire hose, and I sat on the grass eating my post-race banana, in a drenched but contented state, trying not to think of the fact that if it weren’t for Monster Hill #2, I would have caught that bunny.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Durham Quarter Marathon, Monster Hill, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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