Thursday, October 23, 2003
See Megan Run. Run Megan Run!
These are links to photos from the Power Charge Race. My mom thought it was a poem. :)
This is a cold runner.
This is a happy runner.
This is a confused runner, with a really big neck.
This is a runner with the skin taken off of her legs. Ouch!
Good thing they didn't get a photo of post-race Baby Birdie, who got so excited when her amiga crossed the finish line that she turned, tripped on the curb, and fell splat on her face! clumsy bird!
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
How the Race of No Great Expectations Became My Favorite Race of All
"Just do it for fun," my coach responded to my whinings of uncertainty this past week. "Just do the Pervasive Power Challenge Race for fun." Two weeks after my first marathon, and my coach was asking me to race up and down the hills of North Austin for 10 miles. And I was supposed to do this for fun? Fun for an endurance athlete? What does that even mean anymore? I had lots of excuses for not participating. These past two weeks I have been a phlegmy, sniffing, snorting ball of sickness, hobbling around on the mute bloom of a possible injury in my right foot, and fueled by less than perfect nutrition spitefully featuring alcohol and queso. But while I had many reasons for dragging my feet to the start line, the truth was, I was mad at running.
Running and I have been seeing each other seriously for a couple of years now. After a brief flirtation at the 2000 Race for the Cure, running and I have had a passionate yet rocky, on-again-off-again relationship. In the past six months, I have spent more quality time with running than I have with friends, family, or even my poor fiancee. The negative experience I had with running at the Portland Marathon felt like nothing less than a betrayal of trust. I approached last weekend's race with the wariness of one meeting an ex-boyfriend for coffee with the maddening thoughts of giving him a second chance.
I drove through the dark on the way to the Pervasive Power Challenge 10 miler early Sunday morning, with the serene assertion that I had no goals for the race. No times to reach for, no pacing, and no heart rate monitoring. I wasn't allowed to go fast. I wasn't allowed to push myself too hard. I was just supposed to have fun. I was unable to find my heart rate monitor strap that morning, and I took it as a sign. For the first time in months, I left it at home. My head was cleared of normal race stress and anxiety. Little pre-race annoyances didn't fill me with fury. The long line of cars that led us all like lemmings to the wrong parking lot didn't worry me. I was not overly concerned that no one seemed to know where the start line was, or that the parking lot was devoid of volunteers or anyone of authority except for one lone motorcycle cop who was as lost as we were. I followed a group of runners down the street to the correct parking lot and to the familiar sound of Evil the Announcer's (is that really his name?) truck rally voice. The morning was chilly, and I wore my long-sleeve, neon yellow Portland Marathon finisher's shirt. I felt a little silly and conspicuous, as if my shirt screamed, "Hey look everybody! I just did a marathon two weeks ago and I'm racing today! I'm so tough. Oh, your shirt is from a 10k? Hmm, that's nice if you're into that shorter distance stuff. Did I tell you I did a marathon? Huh, did I?" I'm sure no one even noticed or cared.
The atmosphere at the start line felt cheery and calm. I didn't see the intense, dead eye look of the nervous pre-racer. Evil's announcement of "If you have thrown-up or had diarrhea in the past twenty-four hours, do NOT participate in this race." was followed by a giggle mistakenly picked up by the microphone. It sounded as if he had turned to a co-announcer and whispered, "I just said diarrhea. hee hee!" That guy who races dressed up as Elvis was there. He strutted around in his white jumpsuit and awful, matted black wig that made him look like a recently risen Elvis with a horrible case of bedhead. People all around looked happy and even excited about running. Were start lines always like this? I realized I was rarely aware of anything outside my own head before a race. I always concentrated more on the scary confines of my own skull, than the pre-race excitement. But because of the absence of that familiar fear, the race didn't feel real to me. It didn't feel like I was about to start a ten mile run. I felt like a detached observer, like a Yankee picnicking lady at the first days of the Civil War, watching the battle from afar through binoculars, while munching on cucumber sandwiches. I had not yet decided if I would hike up my skirts and jump in to fight with my fellow soldiers. But then the horn went off and the race started. I was a participant, mentally ready or not.
As a pack, we crossed the start line into the golden morning heavy with the scent of donuts from a nearby Krispie Kreme. My joints and sensitive foot protested a little that first mile, but soon were soothed by a smooth, comfortable pace I allowed myself to keep for the entire race. When I had to take a bathroom break at the first mile stop, I did without a second thought to my time. I felt decadent. I jogged with my friends Amy and Jeff and we chatted about past races and current injuries. We waved at cheering spectators and walked through waterstops before we felt like we even needed to walk. We ran alongside bedhead Elvis for awhile. I noticed he spoke about himself in third person throughout the race, as in, "Elvis is going to win." and "Elvis has good pacing." and finally, "Elvis needs a water break."
After a few miles, we came to a sharp left turn leading to a steep downhill. I let go of my body, allowing my legs to fly foot over foot faster and faster down the hill. With each step, my muscles awoke from a two week sleep. They were thankful for this early morning activity and stretched my limbs over the pavement with the sensation of a full bodied yawn. The sun was bright and shining directly into my face. Everything took on a shimmering quality seen through my squinting eyelashes. Without my heart rate monitor, I was able to pay attention to my surroundings. I was aware of the bouncing runners ahead of me, the distant green Texas hills dotted with white houses of the rich, my own breath. I was pleasantly surprised, but not dependent on the sight of each mile marker and each water stop. I became intensely aware of my body, of the view, of the inexpressible joy I felt at the ability to run and the absence of pain in any part of my body. Runners are no strangers to pain. We just hope during our races we will experience the right kind of pain, tired muscles and exhausted lungs, and not the debilitating kind, shin splints and stabbing side cramps. I didn't need to remind myself to smile, a grin so wide threatened to crack my head open, and it was on my face for the entire race. I didn't need to remind myself to thank the water stop volunteers. I high-fived the hula-skirted little girls fighting to hand me Gatorade. Yes, the hills were steep and terrible, but for me they were laughably terrible. I could have crawled up them on all fours faster than I was jogging. And at the top of each hill were clapping spectators, encouraging us to keep running. The course was completely unfamiliar to me, but it felt like an rollercoaster adventure that pushed us up and down and through new, strange neighborhoods.. I kept my pace and heart under control, and had the energy to sprint the last mile faster than I ever ran a last mile in a race. I leapt past the finish line fighting the urge to throw back my head and sing out the notes of Chariots of Fire. My finish time? I didn't even notice.
For all the burnt out runners out there, I would remind you to allow yourself such a race. Allow yourself the freedom of a race with no goals or worries. Without these internal constraints, it becomes a race of intense observation and intense joy. Remind yourself of the reason you do this sport, not for the times, or the splits, or pacing, but for the sheer luck of having the strength and determination to break barriers you previously thought impossible. With the mind, muscles, joints and bones working together to push you through the air in a sort of humming harmony, you can experience a feeling close to that of flight. This is why we run, not because we have to, not because anyone forces us to, but because we love it. We love to run. It seems like such a simple idea, but it is easily forgotten, with all the expectations and tension we surround ourselves with.
Oh, running and I? He surprised me Sunday. We're dating again. I'm sure in a couple of weeks we'll be seeing each other seriously again. This time around won't be so rocky. This time we'll be more appreciative of each other.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Baby Birdie Runs the Portland Marathon
or
My Own Little Version of Hell
I stood there early that Sunday morning in the dark, nervously shifting from foot to foot, waiting for the start of my first marathon. I was standing in a crowd of thousands, packed in tight on the streets of Main and 4th in downtown Portland, Oregon. The last few notes of the Star Spangled Banner bounced and echoed off of the skyscrapers above our heads. "And the hoooome of theeee braaaaave....” An enormous cheer bellowed out from the horde of marathoners surrounding me. I clapped and continued to shift back and forth, eyes intent on the ballooned arch over the start line, a full block in front of me. I was nervous yet calm. I was more physically and mentally prepared for this race than any race I had ever participated in. Those months of training and sweating and pushing my body further than I thought possible, had come down to this last darkened moment before the horn went off. I was a racehorse with twitching muscles and snorting nostrils. I was ready and I was strong. Little did I know that in the next couple of hours I would experience one of the most nightmarish races in my short racing career.
That day I did not fall and twist my ankle. I did not cramp up or throw up. I was not pushed over or tripped by faster runners. I did, however, take an unforeseen one-way trip to the whimpering, hallucinatory La-La Land of Dehydration.
But I didn't know that yet. Before that horn sounded, I perched on the toes of my Mizunos with the certainty that I would reach my goal of a sub 4 hour marathon. My coach and I had discovered that of the three sports I competed in, running seemed to be my strong suit. I had the endurance and speed to reach the goals she had put before me. Each week she raised the bar, and each week I leapt up to grab it with both hands. This was my first marathon, but we were confident that it would be the first of many successful races. It would be the first step to the marathons of all marathons, the 26.2 miles in Boston, Mass. I had put my training time in. I was fast and I was capable. I was ready to kick some serious marathon ass.
But I was not cocky. I knew the yawning stretch of 26.2 miles could easily swallow up poor little runners and spit them out in the medic tent with stars in their eyes and an IV drip in their veins. I bowed my head in respect before this great distance of a race. I knew to start out slow to keep from burning out later in the race. I prepared with all of the race equipment I could wear comfortably on my bird body. I carried Gu in my sports bra. I wore a heart rate monitor on my chest and wrist. I had stuffed my belly with pasta the night before. I had typed up and printed a time wrist band that gave me the exact splits of each mile that I would need to reach my goal. But I carried no water or Gatorade. And that proved to be my downfall.
Training in Texas had taught me the importance of re-hydration, but I was accustomed to racing in the heat, with water stops or drinking fountains every mile. There was little need to carry your own fuel, with such a plentitude of water.
The horn sounded and to the sound of thundering running shoes and the beeping wristwatches, we crossed the start line. I was now running a marathon. There was no turning back. The surreal moment, after all of the mental and physical preparation, is in that first mile of a race. You cannot believe you are here, yet you cannot imagine being anywhere else but in this moment, in your body, in your breath.
The first five miles felt fresh and swift. We ran through the streets of downtown, flanked by cheering crowds and bands. There was the Zimbabwean band, a tinkling, gonging band of bells, and groups of hopping cheerleaders. "R-E-D H-O-T! Red hot runners! GO!" They cheered us on, and we smiled and waved back. I felt strong and fast. I kept a sharp eye on my heart rate monitor and wrist band. I was right on time with each mile. Exactly where I needed to be.
And then it happened. My throat felt a little too dry, my head a little too light. They say if you begin to feel thirsty in an endurance race, it is already too late. By now we were out in the grey, flat expanse of the industrial side of Portland. We passed an oil refinery and railroad tracks. It was beginning to resemble a stretching, concrete desert. I was not concerned, because I felt the next water stop should be around the next corner. Right? But it felt slow in coming. Two miles later, we came to a water stop. By that time it was too late for me. I didn't feel it yet, but my body had been depleted of liquids to the point I would not be able to refuel enough to keep up my pace. I soon found out I should have brought my own water.
The miles crawled by, and I began to feel crazier and crazier. My heart was racing at an alarming rate. My legs felt strong, but my heart, head, and lungs were unable to keep up. My legs were dragging the dead weight of my body. If I could, I would have twisted of the top half of my body like a hollow, wooden Russian doll and placed it gently on the grass next to the road. Without the burden of my dehydrated top half, my legs would then have been free to run fast and light to the finish line.
I was afraid I was going to start talking to myself. My head felt like a bobbing, floating balloon. I felt I had a tenuous grasp on the string that connected my head to my body. If I lost my grip, if my head would float away into the grey, clouded sky. Everything around me had a muffled, distant look to it. I knew if I didn't slow down, I would soon faint. For the first time that day, I slowed to a walk. Walking for me meant failure. I could see my goal fleeting away from me. The goal I had for the past five months was slipping away as easily as the bouncing white tail of a deer disappearing into the distance. I could already see the confusion and disappointment of my coach. I could already see the sympathy and pity of my teammates. I wanted none of it. I felt the frustration and anger welling up, and had to swallow it down hard. I would simply change my goal. Instead my hope of running a fast marathon, my goal now was to finish in one piece. When I needed to walk, I walked. When I needed to chug Powerade, I chugged. I was turning into Forrest Gump.
Mile 20 is supposed to be the beginning of the end. It is supposed to be the time you start feel your endurance and strength go down the tubes. But for me it was the mile that I woke up. I felt as though I had arisen from some horrible nightmare to find that I had been running 20 miles in my sleep. I remembered little of the first half of the race except pain and little oxygen. By then, I had been drinking heavily from each water stop and had finally refueled at least part of my parched body. My heart had slowed and my head had cleared. For a few precious miles, my heart, head, lungs and legs worked together in perfect harmony. I started to enjoy the race. I started to smile back at the spectators, instead of the giving them the blank look of the living, shuffling dead. But it didn't last. By mile 24, my legs were the ones who were ready to give up. They had given almost all they could to a body in trouble, and they were ready for a break. The muscles had melted away and in their place, it felt as if straw had been stuffed into my thighs and calves. With each step, another piece of straw would break in two beneath my red, flushed skin.
Those last few miles were pure will power. I forced my little broken straw legs through each step, and forced my broken self-esteem to rise up and bring the finish line closer and closer to me. The cheers of the spectators were now met by complete and utter silence of the runners around me. We were unable to respond. We all stared down at the at the tops of our shoes, as we each pushed our way through our own little version of hell. Our bodies had given up, and our minds pulled our pleading, dying limbs past each block. We turned the corner at 26 miles, to finish that last wretched .2 mile before the finish line. Everything was in slow motion. Spectators' clapping and screaming seemed to come out from a long, hollow tunnel. The finish line crept toward me at a maddeningly slow rate. And then, finally, I crossed it.
I saw that my finish time was a full half an hour slower than my goal. I also saw my family and friends waving madly at me with an enormous bouquet of flowers above their heads. I waved at them from my bent over double position. A young volunteer walked/carried me over to have my chip cut off my shoe. My family and friends looked so excited and proud. They didn't care what my time was. If I had tried to explain it to them, they would have stared at me with blinking incomprehension, "But...you just ran a marathon. 26.2 miles! That's incredible, who cares what your time is?" So I didn't care what my time was. I was thankful for my non-competitive family. I was thankful for their inability to understand my disappointment, and because of this, I was no longer disappointed. I did it. I ran my first marathon. Time be damned. I did it, and I'll do it again. Next time I'll bring my own water. Next time I'll kick some serious marathon ass.
