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

The Taper
Tuesday, May 15, 2007

As is my usual Tuesday routine, I just checked my schedule for the week and I'm disturbed. Not by the intensity of this week's training, but by its non-intensity.

I know I have a marathon to run this coming Sunday, and I want to do well. My body has mostly held up through the extra running training I added to my Ironman program, and my goal is a sub-4:00 race. But despite knowing all that, I'm having a hard time with the taper.

A "normal" week's schedule looks like this: Monday: Off Tuesday: Swim - Masters, Bike - 1 hour, Run - Intervals (4x100m; 1k, 2k, 1k, 1k; etc) Wednesday: Swim - 30 min, Bike - 2 hours Thursday: Swim - Masters, Bike - 30 min, Run - 5-10 miles at planned marathon pace + 45 sec. Friday: Bike - 1 hour easy Saturday: Long run (15-20 miles) Sunday: Bike 4-5 hours, Run - 20 minutes

This weeks schedule looks like this: Monday: Make up Saturday's long run (6-8 miles) Tuesday: Run - 6x400 with 400m rest intervals Wednesday: Swim - 40 min, Bike - 2 hours (hill intervals on course) Thursday: Run - 3 miles at PMP pace Friday: Swim - 40 min, Bike - 1.5 hours easy Saturday: Off Sunday: Marathon

I'm not doing any of the running this week (except for the long-run makeup session yesterday) to try and head off an aggravated ankle I've been nursing for a while. And I feel as thought I should be enjoying the tapering, but really, it just feels odd. I feel like I should have been out having a hard core night last night, and tonight, and tomorrow night. And then I start feeling guilty -- that I'm not doing enough...not working hard enough. I keep telling myself that it's better to be 10 percent under-trained than one percent over-trained, but I'm not listening very well. I only have a little over three months left to train -- only 12 or 13 more long bike sessions -- and then it's go time. Tapering makes me nervous.

The other issue is that I'm sort of an all-or-nothing person. Or, put another way, an Erin in motion tends to stay in motion; an Erin with not as much to do wants to do absolutely nothing. I haven't had any free time in my evenings for oh-so-long, and when I get even a little, I want to do completely un-Ironman-related things like grocery shop, clean my house, work with my horse, and cook dinner. Maybe even catch a movie...while not on my bike trainer...in an actual theater.

And so, I think the lesson for this week is that one of the hardest things about your first Ironman (or marathon, or other big undertaking) is not necessarily the race. It's not necessarily the hours of training you have to put in (ummm, usually). The hardest thing is how neurotic it makes you. Am I training too much? Too little? Eating too much? Not eating enough? How does my training program compare to other people's programs? And on and on and on, ad nauseum.

I know those close to me have had to listen to me talk about this over and over again -- dissecting every little part of my training. And I just want to say that it's not because I'm into navel-gazing. It's because this is a huge undertaking, with a lot of moving parts to manage (training, equipment maintenance, nutrition...or lack thereof, etc), and quite simply, it makes me nervous ... even neurotic.

So bear with me. It'll get better. I promise.

Posted by Erin 1:31 PM 1 comments

5.5 hours, 50 Miles, and a Meltdown
Monday, May 14, 2007

This past Friday I did my first significantly long outside ride (mostly) on the IM-Moo bike course.

I started in Fitchburg, off of Whalen Road, headed to Verona, then to Mt. Horeb, out toward Cross Plains, and eventually turned around and headed back. But I get ahead of myself.

A handful of miles into the ride, I stopped to check my directions. They were two pages long (check it out for yourself) with a ridiculous number of turns. (As you might imagine, this, combined with being out on the back roads of southern Wisconsin that were poorly signed at best, made for some really slow going). After a fellow biker saw my directions and stopped to consult (he was turned around and couldn't find Verona), I attempted to get back on my bike and find County Route G.

Yes, attempted.

I clipped in with my right foot, as usual, pushed off with my left, didn't get enough traction, and instead of leaning to the left (where I had a free foot waiting), I leaned to the right.

Bam!

I hit the concrete so hard that my right shifter folded in, pointing disturbingly toward the frame at an unnatural angle. And when it did that, my right hand was between it and the road. I also skinned my knee, although what worried me was my hand. It was already painfully sore from master's the night before, where I smacked it so hard against someone in the lane next to me that it hurt to bend my fingers, even at the knuckles. Now, I couldn't close it to grip anything. The problem was the wrist bone that goes into your palm under the thumb. It hurt like a sonofagun, and I wondered if I might be the only person to break the top and bottom of their hand on consecutive days. I also wondered how I'd make it back to my car with one hand.

Thankfully, after a little rest where I coaxed my hand open and closed, over and over again, until I could grip just a little, I was able to climb back on and continue the ride.

At first, I enjoyed myself. I was playing hooky from work and it was a perfect day -- not too hot, not too cold; not too sunny, not too dark. And the rolling hills spread out before me reminded me like nothing ever has of the Irish countryside.

But soon, the wind started. And my hand began hurting again like a sunofagun. And I couldn't find bloody Garfoot Road. I rode up and down County Route J looking for it. And I got more and more annoyed. Because, unlike when you can't find the right road in a car, trying to follow bad directions on a bike requires not only looking, but pedaling -- a lot of pedaling -- especially on back country roads where signs are spaced miles and miles apart, and where every single bloody farm looks exactly alike.

So, 2.5 hours into the ride, I decided to turn around and head back. I was supposed to be at my closest cousin's rehearsal dinner in the UP that afternoon at 5:00, and if I didn't give up on Garfoot then, I'd never make it.

Turning around, I had a half-hour of reprieve, and then (I swear) the wind picked up again. Is it possible for wind to blow in BOTH directions? Honestly? Because it was. Hard. And suddenly, somewhere on County Route S, the course didn't look so Irish-countryside-ish as just long, and lonely, and unending, and unyielding. Hill after hill after hill. Not a car or person in sight. Just cows...and the occasional llama.

It's been said that, although the IM-Moo bike course looks pretty tame on elevation charts, its short, steep inclines will slowly wear on you, and "break you apart, hill by hill."

After only 30 or so short miles, I was starting to break.

It was getting hot, I had only a few sips of both water and Gatorade left, and I hadn't yet hit Mt. Horeb. At one point, I came down a hill into a blind turn, which I assumed (given the lay of the land) flattened out after the turn. So I braked just a little, and readied myself to get back into my aerobars, only to find out that after the turn was another hill, and that after the top of that hill, there was just a tiny little dip before it climbed into an even bigger hill. And then the wind gusted again. And again.

"Come ON!" I screamed at the wind. "Give me a freaking break here!"

Now, I am not in the habit of yelling at the elements, or even talking to myself. Ever. So, this should've represented a bit of an unraveling to me. But I pressed on, chastising myself for being weak-minded, for not having biked enough this winter, for signing up for the IM in the first place.

Before the 50th hill I had come upon, I climbed off my bike to stretch my back and take a quick drink. I promised myself I wouldn't drink all of it, but once I put the water to my lips, I couldn't stop. This happened again, some time later, with the Gatorade.

Mercifully, I eventually biked into Verona, feeling tough and proud. Although I hadn't biked far, or made even marginally-good time, I had been out there for over five hours. And in the marathon training I've done, training yourself -- your mind -- just to be out there, working out, for hours on end, was worthwhile...regardless of the pace I achieved.

I knew it wasn't far now, but the directions I had led me away from where I belived my car to be. In any case, I decided to trust them. I had been out for a handful of hours, I was tired, and I had gotten turned around earlier. Perhaps I was now, too.

I biked farther and farther from the water towers of Verona. Probably five miles in all. And then I came to a T in the road. Only the road had no signs (notice a theme here?) and there was nothing in either direction. The BP gas station where I had parked was conveniently missing. I knew I was in the wrong spot.

And that's when the tears started.

We're not talking just little trails running down my cheeks. We're talking all-out, my-boyfriend-broke-up-with-me, my-dog-just-died, crying. Sobbing. On the side of the road, in full biking get-up.

It all just felt so overwhelming. Like the universe was conspiring against me. I knew I looked ridiculous. I knew I was being ridiculous. But I Just. Couldn't. Stop.

I tried telling myself that there were people far worse off than me. That this was not a big deal. That I had gotten myself into this. And that all I had to do was climb back on the bike and head the other direction.

The last two made me cry even harder.

I finally pulled myself together enough to call my Chief of Stuff. I told him I didn't know what road I had T-ed into, and when he told me "Paoli," I think there was something about the way I said, "Oh, god," that made him offer to come and pick me up -- an offer I accepted.

This too -- his coming to pick me up when I wasn't hurt or lost, but merely having a meltdown -- I knew was ridiculous. I also knew it wasn't very Ironman-ish of me. But frankly, right then, I didn't give a damn. I just wanted to be D-O-N-E, done.

So I took off my helmet, and my shoes and socks. I ran my toes through the grass, and I sat and waited. And I cried some more. I called a friend of mine who's good at listening and perspective, and who happens to be pregnant.

"I'm having a meltdown," I told her. "I've been out here for five and a half hours. I just couldn't do anymore. And now I'm sitting here waiting to get picked up and wondering if I can do this. I don't know what I've gotten myself into."

"I was just saying that same thing yesterday," she said, "Only my sitch is permanent." She got me to laugh.

In retrospect, I think that I badly misjudged my nutritional needs. I had a cliff bar for breakfast, and another half on-course. That, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Gatorade isn't enough to sustain one for that long of a ride. I'm going to do better with my nutrition next time. Lesson learned.

I'm still petrified that I'm that poor of a cyclist. That I'm in that poor of shape that I covered only 50 miles in 5.5 hours. Hell, I can run faster than that. But I'm trying to look at the positives: it was more than 5 hours on course -- on the very hills and with the very wind that will be there on race day, the nutritional bonk that I experienced was a really good lesson to learn this early on, and I've got three solid months to train on that same course. Plus, it's 5+ hours in the bank -- no matter how slow they might've been, I was out there for 5.5 hours. I figure that's gotta count for something.

Posted by Erin 1:14 PM 3 comments