More Vicarious Bogging -- Marathon Pics
Monday, June 04, 2007

Posted by Erin 1:21 PM 1 comments

A Century and Then Some

It's been a rough couple of weeks inside my head.

After a horrible long bike, a sub-par marathon, and a less-than-encouraging comment from my master's coach, I started wondering what the hell I was doing attempting an Ironman. Daily -- hourly -- I would question if I wasn't in over my head, how/why I thought that I could do this, and if I wasn't just wasting my time (and a whole lot of money). I was frustrated and despondent and overwhelmed. There was a lot of feeling sorry for myself. There were tears.

And then, there was this past weekend.

A group of friends was headed up to Waupaca to compete in the Trinity Triathlon on Saturday morning and hang out by the lake for the rest of the weekend. They invited Chief of Stuff and me along.

I was scheduled for a six-hour bike ride and, after checking Mapquest and consulting with my boss, I hatched a plan: I would start out on Friday afternoon from Madison on my bike and pedal as close to Waupaca as I could. If I timed things right, the caravan could simply pick me up about 6 hours in to my ride and transport me the rest of the way. I would have my long bike ride in on Friday, do a little active recovery in the form of a sprint triathlon the next day, and have the rest of the weekend to nap, grill out, and perhaps have a drink or two. In short, it was a chance to generally just enjoy myself and have a little fun -- something that's been in short supply during the majority of this training season.

After the last disaster that was my 5-hour ride, I did a lot of research on what might have gone wrong and decided I needed to concentrate on two important things: 1) nutrition, and 2) keeping a smooth, easy cadence -- no pushing unreasonably low gears, ever.

I packed enough to take in 200 calories an hour: one Hammer bar, two Clif bars, two packages of Clif shot blocks, and 10 Hammer Endurolyte capsules. I had one water bottle and one with Gatorade, as well as a package of Heed and some Nuun tabs. In looking at the map, I figured that, going up Highway 22, I could make a stop in small towns along the way -- like Wyocena, Montello, and Wautoma -- to refill my fluids. The plan was to stop briefly every hour to eat and take two Endurolytes, and to drink Gatorade on the bike in-between in 20 minute intervals.

The ride was perfect. Once on Highway 22 in North Leeds, the traffic thinned out, the sky became overcast, and I got down to business, trying to spend as much time in my aerobars as possible. The first hour flew by, and before I knew it I was stopping for my first scheduled break. I wasn't hungry, or thirsty, but I had a plan and I was sticking to it. I pulled over on the side of the road in front of a Saddlebred farm, scaring a very pretty but skittish sorrel horse who was standing by the fence. The semis booming past didn't phase it at all, but my bike, or helmet (or bike shorts?) sent it galloping to the far side of the pasture.

Back on the bike a few minutes later, I spent the time looking forward to the next hour's break, reminding myself to drink, and reveling in what a great afternoon it was. Later that night, over sloppy joes, one of my fellow cabin-goers would ask me what I thought about for more than a handful of hours on a bike, by myself. And the answer, I'm afraid, wasn't very exciting: I would concentrate on my nutrition, check my speed, pay attention to my cadence and form, stare at the white line, and try to get the Willy Porter's "The Give Song" out of my head (no joke -- 100+ miles of "Give your goodwill and goodwill goes on and on.") Before and during hill climbs I'd try my best to keep my heart rate from spiking and my legs fresh. And every once in a while I'd look around and smile -- amazed at the view, and at what I was doing.

Coming into Waushara County, I realized that this was where my friend Anne's cottage was where we had spent a few amazing weekends last summer and thought, I'm a really long way from home (See...told you my thoughts weren't all that exciting). Not long after that, I pulled into Wautoma, and exclaimed out loud, "Kickass!" I knew I was close to Waupaca -- given my speed and how many hours I had logged, I figured I had 20 or 25 miles to go, at the most.

I pulled into a Mobil station to refill my water. A man behind me in line asked where I was going, and I told him. "Woah," he said. "That's a hike. Where did you start?"

"Aahhh, Madison," I said.

His eyes got big. "No way! You didn't leave today, did you?" I nodded, he shook his head, and then wished me luck, still shaking his head as he walked away.

I got a text message from CoS saying the caravan hadn't even left Madison yet, so I called my friend Patrick, a Waupaca native who was coincidentally going to be home that very weekend. I asked how far I was from Waupaca, and he assured me that I was "almost there" and that "Wautoma is a suburb of Waupaca." We made plans to try to meet up either later that night or the next day, and I got back on my bike.

It was just after 7 p.m.. After six full hours of riding, I still felt good. Well, most of me still felt good. The old sitter wasn't so happy about being back in the saddle, but overall, I had great energy, no back/shoulder pain, and as fresh of legs as I could hope for after that long of a workout.

Then it started to rain. It had rained on and off for about half of the trip thus far -- but it was a light, misty rain most of the time. This rain was all about big drops that pelted you on their way down and a stiff wind. Pedaling against the wind, I was starting to get tired, and it was starting to get dark.

I rode past little towns like Wild Rose, and Rural, and King. I watched large tracts of farmland give way to newly-built homes, but it wasn't getting urban quickly enough. All the while I was expecting to see a "Welcome to Waupaca" sign around every bend. What I would find, though, were a few more homes and a lot of trees and road stretched out in front of me. It felt like the longest 20 miles ev-er.

I looked down and realized that I had put in at least an hour more of biking in than was scheduled. I was soaked straight through, and Waupaca didn't seem to be getting any closer.

I called CoS. "Where are you? I'm way past done," I said. Luckily, he was only about 10 miles behind, and by the time I got my front bike wheel off and unhooked my helmet, he was picking me up at the intersection of Highway 22 and Old Highway 22. And when I learned that I was less than two miles outside of town, I was positively giddy. Google maps measured my route at 116 miles. Even without finishing the last two, I was well over the Ironman bike distance of 112 miles, and I felt really, really great. No soreness, no typical post-workout yuck (that general all-over off feeling that I tend to get more often than most).

Best of all, I had my confidence back. Although that long of a workout is never "easy," I had no problems. Mentally, physically, and emotionally, I was in great shape throughout. And although that route wasn't as much of a roller-coaster as the IM-Moo course, it had enough hills so that I couldn't dismiss it as flat, or easy.

So, with that ride under my belt I think I'm finally -- finally! -- ready to take another swing at the Ironman course. Even better, I'm done with being overwhelmed and scared. Back in the saddle and all that.

Posted by Erin 8:17 AM 2 comments

Vicarious Blogging and Marathon Postcript II
Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Posted by Erin 1:20 PM 9 comments

Marathon Postscript

Posted by Erin 9:34 AM 5 comments

The Six-Hour Ride that Wasn't
Friday, May 25, 2007

I'm going to be in Santa Fe all weekend for a wedding, so I took yesterday off of work to do the six-hour bike ride that I had scheduled.

This was a ride that I had been dreading. I worked all week to psych myself up for it. I even invited my neighbor -- a hard-core cyclist -- to go with me in preparation for a five-day tour in the mountains of Colorado that he's preparing for. No luck on either front.

I unhooked by bike from my trainer; filled up two water bottles; packed my seatpack with a $20 bill, my cell phone, and electrolyte tabs; made sure I had a map and directions of the route; stuffed my jersey pockets with enough energy beans, cliff bars, and gel shots to provide me with about 200 calories an hour (do the math...that's a lot of packages to stuff in one's jersey); and set out the door...only to find the hallway carpeting was squishy wet.

I looked up to find water dripping from the part of the ceiling where my heating/air conditioning unit resides. Ugh. This sort of thing seems to happen every season with my unit, and I knew I was in for a few-hundred dollars worth of repairs.

Certain that I could simply make an appointment for late that afternoon, I loaded my bike in the car, headed out toward Fitchburg, and phoned the air conditioning repair place on the way. They told me that their appointments were all booked for Thursday, and how did Friday look for me? I told them that wouldn't work -- I'd be out of town. The woman on the other end, trying to work with me, offered me this option: they had a tech who might be available sometime between 11 a.m. and 4 p.m. and could call me when he was on his way. I asked about lead time -- 15 minutes or so. It was already almost 9 a.m. I had no choice but to accept the arrangement, turn around, and head back home.

I knew it was going to be a long day, so I stopped at Blockbuster along the way to pick up the next installment of LOST, Season 2. Once home, I put my bike back onto the trainer, loaded LOST, placed all of my supplies on the shelf next to my bike/trainer, and started pedaling. The plan was to do a 4-hour ride that I'm supposed to do next weekend, which I'll swap out for the 6-hour ride.

I got the four hours in, but it wasn't pretty. I had no air conditioning and it was 85 degrees out, so my apartment was a sauna. I was also fighting a sore throat and an overall yucky feeling that might very well have been a low fever. So, every 40 minutes or so, I'd get off and lay down on the floor for a few minutes to give my head a rest. Then I'd climb back on and attempt to push a decent cadence. I don't know that I've ever had a worse workout, and it's probably a blessing that I was lightheaded and woozy in my apartment instead of on Wisconsin's backroads by myself. I potentially should have just scrapped it altogether; but when fear is your major motivator, that's a really hard thing to do.

The repair man finally appeared at 3:50, fixed my unit, and left. When I got home from an event I had that night, it was leaking again -- harder than ever. So I just turned it off altogether, finished packing, and headed to bed. Unfortunate day, all the way around, and I'm definitely looking forward to a weekend away.

Posted by Erin 7:23 AM 0 comments

26.2
Tuesday, May 22, 2007

This past Sunday I completed the Cellcom Green Bay Marathon.

Note the choice of words -- not "raced in," not "ran," but "completed." It was a "completed" kind of day.

Those of us who were doing the marathon and half-marathon -- seven of us in all -- checked the weather reports in horror on Saturday afternoon. We learned that temps were supposed to plummet to the low 30's the next morning. They were predicting a high of 50 for Sunday afternoon.

Before the race, our group -- my friend Melanie from Washington, D.C., my sister, my brother-in-law, one of his best friend's, Shug, Shug's girlfriend Christine, and my Chief of Stuff -- huddled in the Lambeau Field atrium to try and stay warm. It was 80 degrees when I packed for the weekend, and nearly 80 the day before. It was hard to believe that we were about to set out on a run in 30-degree temps, and even if I had known, I don't know that I could have believed it long enough to pack correctly.

In any case, shortly after 7 a.m., we headed down to the starting line and split off. (All the boys did the half-marathon, while the girls were all doing the marathon. However, the half used the marathon course for all but 2 miles.) Lindsey, Melanie, and Christine were going to run together and aim to finish under 5 hours. Tommy and Shug were running together, and Chief-of-Stuff and I decided to run as much as we could together, as we were shooting for a sub 2hr/4hr race.

Everything went well for the first half. We stayed right on pace -- between 8:45 and 9:00 -- and at mile 10.5, Aaron took off ahead to pick up some time in the last two-or-so miles of his race (he ended up finishing in 1:59 -- a huge accomplishment seeing as though he hasn't even been able to train the last few weeks due to IT-band issues).

But suddenly losing my running partner, even though we were both listening to music and not talking, was a bit of a mental adjustment. There was no one left to "keep me honest" except me. The course wasn't enough to keep my interest (it was a lot of winding through nondescript residential neighborhoods), spectators were few and far-between -- although we all had a great support staff of friends and family -- and I was starting to get painfully-cold.

At mile 16, everyone headed over the DePere bridge and ran into a wall of wind. My sister asked how I felt at that point -- I told her that I had two thoughts: 1) I'm so glad I'm not on my bike right now, and 2) I'm still on pace to break 4 hours and I feel good. That was exciting. But not long after, the route turned onto the Fox River Trail.

On nice days, the Trail is a fantastic place to run. It's asphalt path follows the Fox River from DePere to downtown Green Bay, and it has wide gravel shoulders to give your legs a rest. There are beautiful homes on the right-hand side and the calming flow of the river running past you on the left. On nice days.

This wasn't a nice day. The Trail on Sunday had turned into a wind tunnel. The spectators thinned out even more than on the rest of the route, to the point of almost being non-existent. It started to feel like I was doing a really cold, windy training run. And then the thoughts started.

The day before, I had bought a book at the runner's expo, The Extra Mile, written by fellow Yooper (who knew?!) and more notably, ultramarathoner-extraordinaire, Pam Reed, in which she talks about how running hurts after a while, and the difference between her and other people is that she acknowledges that and keeps going. I decided that's what I needed to do. More mental toughness. Less listening to my body...or at least, indulging it.

My mantra falling asleep that night, and through 17 miles the next day, was "This is going to hurt, and you are not going to stop. You will break 4." I repeated it over and over again.

And it did hurt, almost from the beginning -- the cold, my aggravated left ankle. But I was on pace, and it was a hurt I could handle. Temporary hurt. Almost to mile 17, I let myself tell myself that I had less than 10 miles to go. Mistake #1.

For almost a half a mile, I felt as though I had old angel/devil on the shoulders conversation going. "More than 1/2-way done!"... "But 10 miles is a whole training run. You're still going to have to put in 6 more miles than the longest run you've done so far this year." And on, and on (won't bore you with more internal monologue). Eventually I got the devil under control, and started repeating the mantra -- "This is going to hurt, but you will not stop."

My hands had already lost feeling, and my legs were quickly going the same way. Then, somewhere past mile 17, things fell apart. My right calf started to cramp, and then my quad. I stopped to stretch, but I could feel the other leg following suit. So I tried to start running again. More cramping in my right leg. So I tried walking. This helped in the short term. The cramping seemed to go away, and I started running again, pumping my arms in an attempt to will my legs into at least a 9:15 rhythm. More cramping. I slowed to a shuffle, which is largely where I stayed for the remaining 7 miles, walking through the water stations until even walking became too uncomfortable, and giving up my 4-hour goal.

At mile 22, passing over the Walnut St. Bridge, I saw Lindsey's amazing friends, Katie, Kevin, and Deneen. There was no one else on the bridge, and for good reason -- it was bloody cold up there. But they cheered and cheered, and I -- I tried to smile at them, tried not to cry. Last time I had seen them, it was all thumbs-up and waving. This time, I was beyond miserable, in what felt like a cold, windy version of hell.

We all discussed afterwards what miles really are the toughest, and decided, almost unanimously, that mile 20 has earned an unwarranted reputation. It's not mile 20, but those that follow -- at 22, 23, and 24 -- that are unbearable. You want to be done more than anything in the world during those miles, but you're not close enough to the finish to be able to pick up your pace. So you just put your head down, put one foot in front of the other, and will the time to pass more quickly than it does.

I had one brief pick-me-up during those miles. As I rounded the corner after mile 22, the strong beats of The Dropkick Murphy's (a recent playlist addition) oozed through my headphones, just as, up ahead, Irish Dancers did their thing in front of St. Brendan's Inn. A stupid coincidence? Sure. But at that moment, it was just enough.

From miles 23 through 24, I had a hobbling race with a woman next to me. The pain in my ankle was screaming through the numbness in my leg, but with the cramping on my right leg, it was difficult to know which leg to favor more. Then, of all things, my bicep started to cramp -- seriously. But this woman, though, was in rough shape. She was limping so badly, apparently because of a faulty knee joint, that she couldn't put her whole foot down. She'd put down only her left tip-toes, and then shift her weight immediately to the right leg. We'd trade places back and forth, until mile 24, when she pulled ahead of me (although I still don't know how that happened).

Mile 25 was glorious for one main reason -- the heated tunnel leading into Lambeau. The warmth almost felt like an assault, but for me, it was a welcome one. My legs heated up enough for me to pick up a respectable pace. Van Halen's "Right Now," playing on my ipod when I emerged from the tunnel into the stadium, was also blasting over the stadium speakers. I shut off my ipod then to just take things in, jogging around the perimeter of the famed field and looking up at the numbers that had been retired there. The whole field seemed smaller from down there, and I wondered if the novelty of playing at Lambeau wears off after a while.

Back through the tunnel, the .2 miles to the finish was difficult. Because of the ankle, yes. But also because of the yellow numbers staring back at me. 4:26. (Official chip time turned out to be 4:24). I had had 4:00 in my sights, and it slipped away from me. All of that training and speedwork and time put in for a 4:26. Frustrating at best.

I staggered through the chip-cutting area after, crying. A little because of the ankle, but more out of frustration. I must've looked in rough enough shape that one of the volunteers kept steering me toward the medical tent. Soon, though, I was surrounded by my friends and family, and not long after that, we all took shelter from the wind behind a row of porta-potties (you know it's cold when...) to cheer on Melanie, my sister, and Christine.

And this -- this -- is really the start of what the marathon experience is about. Mel finished first, in 4:51 (4:49 chip time), and Linds and Christine ran hand-in-hand across the finish at 4:52 (4:50 chip time). For the rest of that afternoon, and well into the next day, we all talked about the experience -- the mile markers, the memorable fans, the dark moments, and the highlights. We shared our stories to fill one another in on what had happened while we were each duking it out with our own personal struggles on-course: How Lindsey's friend, Jenny, signed up for the 5k, missed a turn, and ended up running a half-marathon. How Mel turned to her dad at mile 17 and said, "Don't ever let me do this again" (By yesterday, she was already considering what future marathons might be "fun" to tackle). How I was weirded out by the Civil War reenactor-cheerers in full get-up at one of the Fox River Trail spectator spots, as apparently, was everyone else. And how we all noticed the temperature, at nearly 1:00 that afternoon driving home, hadn't risen above 43 degrees.

Last night as we were continuing to discuss the hours we spent running on Sunday morning, my sister said this about her experience: "It's not about 26.2. It's about one more, and one more, and then, maybe, four more. And it's about all the training in my basement on the treadmill, in the morning, in the dark, leading up to it. It's about me learning I am strong."

She added, "I feel like my f-ing legs are going to fall off. But I feel good."

Amen, sister.

Posted by Erin 7:24 AM 3 comments

I Feel Bad About My Bike
Friday, May 18, 2007

The other night after master's, I was sitting in the hot tub listening to a couple of Iron-athletes (one man, one woman) talk about their training and race experiences. They gave me tips on everything from open water swimming tactics to wetsuits to what to put -- or not to put -- in your special needs bag. And one of them commented that at a certain point in training you become "one" with your bike, but it takes a very, very long time -- up to a year at least.

I sighed. I love my bike. It fits me like a glove. It's so light I can carry it up stairs with one hand. I know how to adjust/tighten my aerobars, inflate the tires, and take its wheels on and off(not a full roster of what I need to be able to do with it, but more mechanically-intimate than I've ever been with anything else). And, besides, it's kind of cute.

But since last week's debacle, I've lost all desire to spend any road time with it, let alone working on becoming "one."

I have no problem jumping on my trainer for some quality interval time. I'm one of those rare people, I think, who doesn't mind training indoors on treadmills or stationary trainers. I actually like them. They're just so darn convenient. And if I have music or something to watch, boredom doesn't factor in at all. In fact, I'm more likely to get bored on a long run/ride outside.

But that last long ride really messed with my head. Call it lack of confidence, or will, or whatever you want, but I have a six-hour ride coming up next week, and I'm already dreading it. A lot. And if by "a lot" you guessed that it's the first thing I think about in the morning, and I dread it hourly during the day, then you'd be correct. I'm dreading it more than I've ever dreaded any workout before. Hell, I have a marathon to run in two days, and you know what's weighing on my mind? Not trying to run 26.2 miles in under four hours...but next week's ride.

It defies logic, really. You would think that biking would be a breeze compared to running. But I mind running for four hours a whole lot less than I mind biking that same amount of time.

Really though, in thinking about it by writing this post, I've come to the conclusion that it's the Ironman course that's gotten to me...not so much the biking. Because when I think about biking elsewhere -- at home in Iron Mountain, for example, or even this weekend in Green Bay -- I don't get the same, sick to my stomach, visceral reaction that I get when I think of The Course -- that damn course with it's hills and unmarked roads and cows and more hills and unmarked roads and cows...over and over again until you lose your mind.

I think it seriously messed with me. It took my mojo. And I really, really need that mojo back. Maybe I'll spend my (hopefully not more than) four hours on Sunday trying to figure out just how to recover it.

Posted by Erin 9:09 AM