20 Miles - I am going to die - just like Phidippides

I thought this would be a good week for us to take a brief look at the history of the marathon.   Phidippides was the Athenian runner who ran from the plains of Marathon to the city of Athens, approximately a 26 mile while run, and died shortly thereafter of exhaustion.    It was his job to inform the City of Athens that the Athenians had defeated the Persians at the Battle of Marathon and to warn them that the Persians were on their way.     Now, my immediate thought, is that if someone died running 26 miles, then perhaps it is not the wisest thing for me, or anyone else, to do.  And, yet, since the inception of the modern Olympics, people have run the marathon.    A closer look reveals that Phidippides, was actually a "professional" runner, much like Olympic runners.   That's what this guy did, - run.  This seems to support my earlier hypothesis, that I , a non runner, should not be running a marathon.    

This hypothesis is also supported by my experience running Saturday.    Once again I had to be at the practice at 6:30 a.m., this, in and of itself, is actually a valid reason for me to not run a marathon.   Once we got started running, I felt pretty good.   The first 6 miles, - all good.  The next 6 miles -- not dead yet.   About 15.5, I thought about killing myself I was so miserable.   At 18, my back spasmed.  WHAT?    What the hell was that?   Oh, and it kept doing it.  So, I walked the last two miles, trying to stretch out my back periodically.    I stretched a little when I finished, and then got in my car to go home.   I walked into my house and could barely move!   I contemplated an ice bath, but decided, hells no!  (see previous entry on the ice bath), so I took a hot shower and stretched some more.    Then I proceeded to fall asleep on the sofa for 45 minutes.   I seem to vaguely recall Oliver playing legos, but for all I know, he could have stuffed legos up both our noses and I wouldn't have been the wiser.    I finally got up and went to lunch and shopping.   I was so tired.   And, sore.   My feet, knees, hips, back, shoulders, eyes and head all hurt.     Clearly, my body had decided that this much running was unacceptable.    Again, all supporting the aforementioned hypothesis. 

During my run, the mentor I was running with had mentioned the story of Phidippides, -- she said something, like, just think if he would have died after only 21 miles, then that would have been the marathon.   And, I thought, "damn fool, I wish he would have died after 21 miles."   I was trying to remember the whole story, I remembered that he was in fact a messenger, but I seemed to recall that there was more to it than just the 26 miles.   So, I looked it up.  (Thank you wikipedia).   It turns out, prior to that 26 mile run, Mr. Phidippides had run 140 miles each way back and forth to Sparta, and had fought in the battle of Marathon.  So, he didn't actually die from running the 26.2.   He died from running 306 miles.    The idea of someone running that far makes me laugh.   Or cry.   

So, I thought to myself, how many people have died running a marathon?   I googled that too.  I couldn't find an exact number, but the risk appears to be .8 per 100,000 people.    I tried to figure out how many people would be running the San Diego marathon, and the best estimate I could find was 40,000, -not even 100,000 people.   I figure that means  the odds are ok that I won't actually die (to all you math nerds, I know that is not how probability works, but I'm trying to make a point here).   I am just going to feel like I did.  

Running While Sick

For the second time since I started training for this marathon, I got sick.   Really sick.   

During the week, after working 10-12 hours, all while blowing my nose endlessly, it's tough to motivate to go out for a run.   But, with 18 miles looming before me on Saturday, I didn't want to miss the group run.   And, cold medicine got me through the week, -- so surely it could get me through the run, right?   Answer is no.   Advice for this week is do not run while high on cold medicine.  It is probably good advice to not run while high on anything, but it has been quite a few years since any other sensory altering substances have entered my blood stream, so let's just say cold medicine.  

Friday night I knew I needed to sleep, so Nyquil seemed like the obvious choice.   Saturday morning, I needed to get up and run, and Dayquil was sitting right there on my kitchen counter next to the coffee maker.   Seemed reasonable at 6:30 in the morning, after having taken the Nyquil only 7 hours before, to pop a couple.   I should note, I am not quite coherent at 6:30 in the morning, even on my best days, so in a Nyquil fog, my senses were probably already impaired.   Anyway, I showed up to practice (late), and we got started running.   About 9 miles in, I realized I was lightheaded, at about 10 1/2, it dawned on me that I had taken in a lot of cold medicine in the previous 10 hours.   By 12 miles I thought I was going to faint.   I told the mentor I was running with to go on with out me, and that I would just walk it off.  Fortunately, she didn't, because really, that statement is just more evidence that I was a little loopy.   Seriously?  I feel faint, why don't you leave me alone, three miles from my car.  Anyway, she walked with me the last six miles of the course.   

In addition to the big take away of this week (reminder:  don't do drugs and run), I would also like to give a shout out to the people who walk the marathon.   Because I walk all the time, it never occurred to me what a bitch it is to walk that many miles.  Granted by the time I started walking I had already run 12 miles, but the next day, my legs hurt in totally different places than usual.   My hip is always sore the next day (I am old), but my calves had never hurt before, but they did that day!    Walking a marathon, -- or a half marathon is no joke!   So a serious, you rock to all the walkers out there.  

And, just as a side note, if you do do drugs before running, you can probably walk it off.   But, I recommend having someone walk with you, because otherwise, you could very well end up in a ditch.  

Running Alone

Last Friday night was rough.   I didn’t sleep at all.   6:30 a.m. rolled around and there was simply no way I could make it to my practice.  I needed sleep desperately.   So, I turned the alarm off, rolled over and slept until 10.  

Later that afternoon I emailed my coach to find out if I could run with the Westside team on Sunday.  I was set and ready to go.   But, once again, someone (or something) reared it’s ugly head and I was deprived of sleep.   I did manage to make it out of bed by around 7:30 a.m., laced up my running shoes and took off on my ten mile run by myself.  

I run by myself in the evenings 2-3 times per week.   But the majority of these runs are between 2 ½ and 3 ½ miles.   I follow some variation of the same route every evening.   But, I knew if I was going to do 10 miles I needed to mix it up a bit, so I started running east away from my house.   About 2 miles east I turned north for about a 1/2 mile (did I mention that east is flat and north is a hill?) then it was time to go east again for another half mile.    Finally, at last, west.   About 2 miles west there is a drop, woah!  Oh, no, it’s time to go north again!   Going north, north, north, and, okay, going South.    Relief.   About that time I realize, thanks to my handy dandy iphone app, that I have gone 7 miles, but I am only about 1 mile from my house.   I have to get in another two miles.  I am going to have to go north again!!!!  I know what you are thinking, why does she keep going North when there is the possibility of going South?   Well, for starters I deeply fear the South.   Nothing good ever happens when you go South.   In the case of whether I live, about a mile a Southeast of where I live, I hit gang territory.  North of where I live, are crazy celebrity mansions.   Hills or no hills, I’m going North.   I finally made it to 9 miles – at the top of a gently sloping hill, which meant the last mile home was going to be super easy.   It may have been the fastest I have ever run.  

Running alone is, not surprisingly, a little bit lonely.   When I run with the group, there is conversation and commiseration to keep me going.   But, out there alone, its all me.  And, well, I am just not that interesting to myself.   I’ve been told to expect to run most of the marathon alone.   Sure, I will start with people I know, and I may even make new friends along the way, but the marathon is an individual sport.   The thing about that sentiment is, while I will be running alone, I will be running with all the camaraderie and support that friends, family and the team have given me a long the way.   With all that, I could never really be alone.    So, I suspect that when I finally run the marathon, that will the be the fastest I will have ever run.   

Week 12 Murphy's Law or Irony: You be the Judge

Murphy's law:   Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Irony:  an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.

On Saturday, our team met at Griffith Park for our sixteen mile run.   Now, fourteen had gone really well, twelve had sucked, so sixteen was anyone's guess.  But, the last time we ran at Griffith Park, I felt awesome afterwards.    Griffith Park is shady, it is closer to my home than where we usually run, and I know the area really well.   I like running at Griffith Park. 

I arrived on Saturday ready to run, and feeling confident.   Sixteen was totally doable (in my  head).  I set off on my run.  I knew it was going to be warm, so I wore short sleeves.  I never wear short sleeves.  I felt pretty good.  But, it was hot.  Not like, African Safari hot, but definitely hotter than usual - and we were in Griffith Park, not in the valley!   I realized immediately that I needed more water than usual.  I also started drinking a sports drink.   I also didn't hesitate to take some nutrition.   But, by mile twelve, I was definitely dragging.   By fifteen I was walking.  But, I got through sixteen, one way or another.  

The rest of the weekend was awesome.   After coming home and showering, we headed off to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books and enjoyed our time at the children's stage.  Then we hit up a party (for a five year old, way  more sophisticated than our usual 2-3 year old parties).   Sunday morning we visited the zoo with some friends and their daughter (much to my son's delight).    By Sunday night I was so tired…..

Then Monday came.   As some of you may have noticed, this blog post did not go up on Tuesday per the usual.   Monday came, and I billed 10 hours, Tuesday came and I billed 10.5 hours, Wednesday came and I billed 11.5 hours.   In two and a half weeks, I go to trial.   That's right, every day for the next three weeks is going to look exactly like the last three days.   Oh, and I still have other clients who will require my attention.

When I began preparing for this journey, work was a little bit light.   Now, I can't see the light of day.   This weekend, I only have to run 10 miles (who knew that sentence would ever leave my mouth!)   But, the following weekend is 18, then 20, and two weeks after that 26.2.  At this particular moment, as I put aside my files to type this blog, I do not know how I am going to find the time to run,  at all.     

Week 11 - The Ice Bath

On Saturday I ran 14 miles.  It was exhausting.   Then, I came home and took an ice bath.   I have been trying to think of something profound to say about my experience this past weekend, - what a huge accomplishment 14 miles was, how I persevered, to come back after a miserable run the week before, -- but instead, I keep coming back to the ice bath.  

For weeks I have heard from my pace group leader about how great ice baths are for recovery.  She assured me that once we reached a certain amount of mileage, I would go home, jump in the ice bath, and feel awesome all afternoon - as if I hadn't run at all.   I talked to a variety of people on this topic most of whom sang the virtues of the ice bath.   Every now and then, there would be a naysayer, someone who admitted that they just couldn't do it.  But, those folks were few and far between.   So, I assumed that at some point I would try the ice bath.  

I knew going into my run on Saturday, that I would be biking on Sunday, it was CicLaVia.   CicLaVia is a yearly event in Los Angeles.  Ten miles of city streets are closed down for the enjoyment of cyclists.   There are a few roller bladers and pedestrians out too, but the bikes get to rule the streets for the day.   When we ride, I pull Oliver along behind me in a bright yellow trailer.  The trailer itself weighs about 20 pounds.  Add on top of that Oliver's 33 pound frame and all of our stuff (snacks, water, sweatshirts, diapers, wipes, three different types of sunscreen) and it's a heavy load to pull.   But, Justin rides a vintage (read:  ancient) Schwinn that he refuses to part with, so my bike is the only one that can pull the trailer.   Anyway, I knew we were going to ride, and I didn't want to take any chances that I would be in pain, - so I decided it was time for the ice bath. 

After I got home from my run, Justin ran down to the 7-11 to buy ice and chocolate milk (it's a great recovery drink!).   When he got home he filled the bath up with cold water.  I pulled on a sweatshirt and Oliver's owl hat and made myself a large cup of steaming hot tea.    I started to get in the water and knew it was going to be trouble from the moment I dipped my big toe.  Justin egged me on.   Finally, as I sat down in the water, Justin dumped a bag of ice over the top of me, -- scratching my leg I might add.   I screamed.   I screamed like baby, - a baby being put in an ice bath.   I found it excruciatingly painful.    Justin, on the other hand, was gleeful.   

Oliver came into check on me.  He understood this bath was different and asked me why I was taking a cold bath.   I explained to him, that the cold bath was like a boo boo buddy.   Mommy, I explained, had an owie and needed the ice.    He seemed to get  it and thoughtfully said "Mommy has a big owie."     

On Sunday I did ride through the streets of LA.    I don't know if the ice bath actually helped or not, or if I would have been able to ride without it.   I do know that after my ride on Sunday, I had an even bigger owie than I did the day before.  This time, however, instead of slipping into an ice cold bath, I decided to slip into a nice glass of wine, - or as I explained to Oliver, a glass of Mommy juice.   He, again, thoughtfully surmised, "Mommy has big juice."

Week 9 - Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Last Sunday, after Saturday's 10 mile run, I noticed that I felt a little achy.  By bedtime, I was running a low grade fever, that kept up throughout Monday and Tuesday.  It was accompanied by a sore throat, head and chest congestion and fatigue.   I felt terrible all week.  Because of this, I did not do any mid-week runs last week.  

By the time Saturday rolled around I was feeling better.   Not great but better, and the last thing I wanted to do was miss my Saturday run too.   I had 12 miles to do.  So, when my alarm went off at 6:15 a.m. I climbed out of bed, into my running shoes and headed out the door.  

I started off the run at my usual 12 mph pace (I know it’s still slow!), but here’s the thing, -- I couldn’t keep up, my chest was throbbing.  I dropped down to a slower pace group (yes, there are slower groups).  That was at about mile 3.5.   The slower pace was better, -- I am not entirely sure how slow I was going, but it was slow, and I made it to about mile 9, and at that point I knew I was in trouble.   I couldn’t catch my breath – and to make matters worse I could feel a blister forming.  So, I told the group I was running with that I didn’t think I would be able to finish 12.   The two girls were supportive, we took a short break at just under 10 miles and decided to just work on short one minute interval runs.   That worked for about another mile, - and then I was just done.   I couldn’t run another mile.   But, I had come eleven miles – it seemed kind of silly to just go home when there was only one more mile to go.   Instead of running it, I walked it.  I got in twelve miles on my legs even if I didn’t run them all. 

That afternoon when I got home, my whole body was sore.   A whole different kind of sore than I had experienced after any of my other runs.  I showered and put on sweat pants (which is what I do after every run; Justin may burn my sweat pants when this is all over) and we decided to walk to lunch about a half mile down hill from where we live.   I was moving super slowly.  We ate, (I was ravenously hungry), and then started back up the hill.    At some point, I actually started limping.   I thought about kicking my two year old out of the stroller and making Justin push me instead.  But, I finally made it home.  Later that afternoon, I made cupcakes and watched a couple of episodes of Dr. Who to help myself recover (that sonic screwdriver fixes everything!)  By evening, I was able to help Oliver color Easter eggs.   By Sunday, I was chasing him around the yard, and by yesterday, I was back to running my usual neighborhood route.  I was a little slower than before I got sick but I got it done.

Week 8 – 10 Miles and a Mathematical equation

It’s only the eighth week and I cracked double digits.   That’s an exciting milestone, - or so they tell me.  I, in response to having completed 10 miles on Saturday morning, nearly had a panic attack when I started to do some calculations.   Granted, this would not be the first time that math has caused anxiety for me, but hear me out. 

In 8 weeks, I have come to run 10 miles.   At first glance it appears I averaged a gain of 1.25 miles a week.  But, that’s not really accurate because we started this whole thing off at 3 miles.   So, I have to subtract 3 from 10, (for those of you who also have difficulty with math, that’s 7), which means my actual rate of mileage accrual was .875 miles per week.  

There are 9 weeks remaining between now and the marathon.   That means adding….16.2 miles!   And, that means adding an average of 1.8 miles every week between now and the marathon.   I hope you are starting to see why panic set in.  Up until now, I was optimistic about this whole experience, after all this is a well–thought out program that I am following that lots of people have followed before me.  But, these are cold hard numbers staring me in the face.   Who can argue with numbers?

Well, later that afternoon as the panic subsided, I was feeling substantially better than I usually do after my morning runs.  I was wide awake, playing with Oliver, grocery shopping and getting things done around the house.   While doing all that I realized that if I had only committed to doing a half marathon, I could probably go out and do it next weekend (don’t get excited my schedule has me doing 12 miles and that’s as far as I am going), but realistically, I probably could do a half.   What would have been the challenge in accomplishing something in 17 weeks, that I now know I could have done in 9? None.   That reconfirmed my belief that choosing to do the full marathon was the right choice.  

A little later still, however, I realized that my higher level energy may not have actually been due to physical gains on my part, but rather, the fact that practice started at 8 on Saturday, not 7.   Damn numbers.