The New York City Marathon

Date: November 6, 2016

Location: New York, NY

It’s surreal to think… just one year after running my first Major, there I stood, about to run another one. I’ve watched this race on TV so many times… the mass of colorful runners making their way across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge… winding through each of the five boroughs… crossing the finish line in Central Park. Now I was about to be one of those runners, living and breathing the experience instead of watching through a screen.

I’d heard all the warnings. Don’t expect a PR in New York. I knew it would be a tough course but I’m tougher, I thought. I’ve already persevered through the worst of it at some point, right? Hills, crowds, heat, injury… what else could NYC throw at me that I couldn’t handle? I’d gotten in the best shape of my life and every single race I’d run so far in 2016 had been a personal best (including reaching my goal of a 1:45 half marathon!) NYC would be the perfect race to end the year. I couldn’t wait to get out there and attack it.

And if that wasn’t enough motivation, I would be running the race as a member of Team Fight, to benefit the Ulman Cancer Fund. I’d seen firsthand the great work that Ulman does for young adults battling cancer when I pedaled across the US on the 4K for Cancer. I was proud to be representing Team Fight and to be running in honor of all of my donors’ loved ones as I battled the 26.2 miles.

Jin and I drove down to NYC on Friday. After a fun night out with our friends – and gracious hosts – Michelle and David, I went to bed thinking, in just over 24 hours I’ll be waking up to run 26.2 miles. Because even though the race on Sunday didn’t start until 9:30am – and my corral didn’t start until 10:30 – we’d have to wake up at 4:30 (!) to get on a bus to Staten Island. 

Saturday was a low-key but busy day of meeting up with friends in the city, biking across Manhattan to the (very crowded) race expo, and fueling up with my new favorite pre-race meal: ramen (salty + carby). Even though I felt ready for what lay ahead of me, I couldn’t shake those butterflies all day. And even as I went through my night-before-marathon ritual of foam rolling, stretching, and nail painting, the jitters stayed with me all night, penetrating my dreams-turned-nightmares of missing the bus, falling off the bridge, and running an extra 12 miles after missing a turn. Of course all of those were impossible – well, except missing the bus. Which is why I woke with a start half an hour early. Only to have a minor heart attack when I saw the clock on the wall saying I’d woken up half an hour late. Oh right, it’s daylight savings. I’m good. Breathe. Breathe.

 

By 5:30 am, Jin and I were lined up in Times Square to get on the bus to the start. It was still pitch black outside, but at least it felt like daytime in the bright square. The line wound around and around the block, each runner feeding off of the nervous excitement of everyone else. The bus was comfortable and warm… it wasn’t long before I was sound asleep. I woke to find we’d stopped in a bright and unfamiliar place…

Staten Island

With my first step off the bus, I was hit with a blast of icy wind. It took everything I had not to turn right around and get back in my warm cocoon on the bus and forget this whole thing. But I bowed my head and kept walking. In the pre-race area, there were massive open areas for each of the three waves (we were in the orange wave) to hang out before getting in the corrals. Just as I was starting to wonder if we’d even be able to find my friend Si, she found us! The three of us staked out a sunny spot on the concrete to wait the three and a half hours until it was time to start.

 

The wait was torture. It was just cold and windy enough to be too uncomfortable. Volunteers handed out hats for us to wear and warm drinks for which we were grateful. One of the things I was most unsure of was timing my food intake. I’d never started a marathon so many hours after waking up. I’d settled on eating a little bit when I woke up, and eating my full breakfast about two hours before I was supposed to start.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, stretching, massaging my calves, and waiting some more, it was finally time for the last porta-potty stop and to head to our corral. All at once the nerves hit me.

But then we were herded through the long and winding starting chute, and I saw it: the Verrazano Narrows bridge up ahead. I stripped off my extra throw-away layer and tossed it to the side. All feelings of nervousness went with it.

I don’t even fully remember crossing the starting line. I was so focused on that bridge. I couldn’t look away. Those massive cables and the looming towers. And then, they were right above me. Runners cheered as we started the mile-long stretch over The Narrows to Brooklyn. It’s strange how time can be so warped by memory. Because crossing that bridge didn’t even feel close to the length of a mile. Even later when I saw the replay of the TV broadcast, I watched the runners cross it and thought Was I really on the bridge for that long?! Jin describes it as being long, windy, and miserable. But I don’t remember any of that. In my memory it was exhilarating and it was over much too soon. I held my Go Pro high and tried to capture every moment. I was awe-struck by the view of the glittering water and Manhattan in the distance with its tiny toy buildings. The wind breathed in unison with me as I floated toward Brooklyn.

Brooklyn

When I stepped off the bridge, the magic bubble was broken. I looked at my watch. I’d been running the pace of the crowd around me and that first mile and a half had been much too slow. Another NYC tip I’d heard a few times: Don’t worry about your pace the first two miles, your race will start after that when the crowd thins. But I had a goal to reach! And now I was already behind. I had work to do.

Brooklyn is the longest stretch of the race. I would be running 12 more miles before reaching Queens. The two things that I remember most about those miles through Brooklyn are the endless throngs of spectators, and the constant worry I felt about my pace. I tried to settle into a rhythm but it was tough with the large number of runners around me and with the excitement of the crowds. I couldn’t help but high-five every spectator that offered an outstretched hand, and call out a “thank you!” to every encouraging shout. It’s really amazing how many people there were on the streets of Brooklyn that day.

Looking back on my mile splits, it would appear that after the first mile, I held a fairly steady pace of about 8:30. But in truth, I felt like I had to constantly make adjustments to maintain it. All my long training runs had been at that pace, and I’d trained my body to feel comfortable maintaining it without much thought. It was my home base. Why, then, was it so hard for me to do that now? It either felt too fast or too slow.

Frustration mounted when I reached the turn at mile 8. This was a popular spot for spectators who came to watch their loved ones. I knew of two people who were there: Si’s husband Nate, and my friend Zac (both have made appearances in this blog before!) I scanned the crowds, but I had no hope of finding them in the mass of faces. But that wasn’t the main source of my frustration. With the right turn onto Lafayette Ave, the course narrowed to about half of its previous width. Suddenly we were packed like sardines and I was caught in a bottleneck. I stared helplessly at the numbers on my watch as my average pace decreased and there was nothing I could do about it.

But even if I could have kept going at my chosen pace, I’m not convinced I would have been able to for much longer. This was the moment that I first noticed my good old friend: Fatigue. As I mentioned before, the NYC course is said to be tough for several reasons. The largest of which is the hills. Remember when I said I thought I could handle hills? I was imagining rolling hills. But instead of rolling hills, this course was made up of long-ass inclines. Sometimes up to a mile long. And those tricky bastards were so subtle that in that first stretch through Brooklyn I didn’t consciously notice them. It was inevitable that they would catch up to me.

For the next few miles, Fatigue only appeared for short visits. I panicked when she arrived, and breathed a sigh of relief when she left. I was still able to maintain fairly even mile splits, making up for any time lost. But I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to hold that pattern.

At last, I reached the half-way point and then the Pulaski Bridge into Queens. I told myself I just had to make it over this bridge and all would be fine. I’d start anew in borough #3. Queens would be a fresh adventure to take me out of the rut I’d somehow found myself in in Brooklyn. If only that were true.

Queens 

At first, entering Queens did feel like a breath of fresh air. The bridge had been hot and lonely, but thankfully as soon as I turned the corner, I was met with a throng of cheering spectators. It lifted my spirits for the next half-mile and I thought maybe I’d been right about that second wind. But over the next couple of miles, Fatigue crept her way back in. And this time she settled in for a nice long visit. I became increasingly panicked as I wound through the streets of Queens and my splits were starting to creep toward 9-minute miles. The spectators were fantastic the whole way through, so I tried to focus on them alone and not on my watch.

Unfortunately, once I reached the Queensboro bridge, there were no more spectators to distract me. And so began one of the longest, most harrowing 0.5 mile journeys of my life.  A description of my experience on each of the bridges so far in one word:

Verrazano-Narrows: Exhilarating

Pulaski: Hopeful

Queensboro: DISASTER

We were running on the lower deck, so the bridge encased us as we began the long ascent up the first half. After a few minutes, I felt absolutely drained of energy so I thought, I MUST be running too fast. I checked my watch and my heart stopped when I saw my current pace. 11:00. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I was giving this race everything I had, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

Of all the distances we race, I think the marathon can be the cruelest. Sometimes it really doesn’t matter how well you’d trained. Fatigue will still appear and laugh in your face. So, you hit all your training splits perfectly for the past 4 months? Sorry honey, here’s a nice long hill for you. Hope you drank exactly the right combination of water and Gatorate for the past hour.  Or if it’s not Fatigue, her friend Pain will make an appearance, All those Fartlek runs you nailed during training? Good for you. Here’s a small twinge for your left knee. Let’s see how small that feels after 16 more miles ha! The smallest detail can magnify immensely over the distance.

So while it may be the cruelest race, it’s also the most humbling. And that’s why while running my tenth marathon, I realized how much I still respect this distance. There’s nothing you can take for granted. No room to be sloppy, no matter how experienced you may be.

And that’s why I was able to admit, right there at mile 16, that this marathon had bested me. I came into it a little too cocky. A little too confident that I knew exactly what I was doing and what to expect. But the marathon had other plans in store for me, and I had to accept it.

And with that acceptance it was like a veil had lifted (picture a Claritin commercial): This is the New York City Marathon, stupid. You may never get this opportunity again. Soak it all in! So as I finally crested the peak of that bridge and made my way across the much more forgiving second half, I wished I hadn’t spent the first part of the race stressing out about my pace so much. I wished I could start over with this garden-fresh perspective. But all I could do was get out of my head and make the most of the miles I had left.

Manhattan – Part 1

I emerged from the encasing of the bridge to be met with deafening cheers. If I thought the streets of Brooklyn and Queens were packed… there were layers upon layers of screaming spectators here. And somewhere in there my friend Michelle was screaming right along with them. For the first time since the Verrazano-Narrows, I felt nothing but pure joy. I turned onto First Ave. for the 3.5-mile journey north to the Bronx. Even though I had about 10 miles left, I could picture the course map in my head and it felt like the part I had left was so small compared to the long, winding path I’d already completed. The towering buildings overhead were familiar and comforting. This was the part of New York I knew best.

I settled into a comfortable pace of just over 9 minute miles. It wasn’t the pace I’d trained for, but I knew if I kept trying to push it now, I’d crash and burn later. I still felt zapped of energy, but without the added mental stress of hitting my impossible goal pace, I had a little less weight to carry. I focused on the crowds and particularly their posters. Since it was a few days before Election Day, among the usual jokes about beer and bodily functions (and for some reason, Willem Dafoe?), there were a bunch of amusing political ones (“At least you run better than our government!” and “Run like Trump is trying to grab you by the [insert cat picture here]”). I soaked in the energy of the crowds like a sponge and before I knew it, I’d crossed bridge #4: the Willis Bridge.

The Bronx

The stretch through the Bronx was just over a mile, and it flew by. I remember feeling surrounded by a totally different energy than in Manhattan. The crowds weren’t as thick, but they were just as enthusiastic. We were met with music and dancing and shouts of “Welcome to the Bronx!”

The sun was vicious overhead and my stride was getting worse and worse as the foot pain that had plagued me during training resurfaced. Yet, my pace wasn’t slowing. I passed the 20 Mile marker and smiled inside (I was in too much pain to actually smile). Passing 20 miles always feels like breaking through a barrier. It’s the longest distance that I run in training, so the rest of the race feels… unwritten. Beyond 20 miles is when I get to prove to myself what I’m made of. Everything from here on out is pure grit.

As I approached the fifth and final bridge (Madison Ave), I was sad to be leaving the festive music and proud energy of the Bronx behind. But there was still work to be done in Manhattan, and Central Park was calling my name.

Manhattan – Part 2

With the turn onto 5^th Ave, this was the first time the course headed south. I tried to use the mental image of running south to imagine I was running downhill. Even though this stretch through Manhattan was about five miles long, I could practically taste the finish line.

But, the struggle was real. The sun beat down brutally and I could see my shadow running next to me, looking battered with an unusual gait as my foot pain continued to get worse. All I wanted was to reach Central Park.  Before long, the course took us along the edge of the park, so it gave the illusion that I was running in two completely different places, depending on whether I looked to my right or my left. After what felt like years, the course took a right turn and I found myself surrounded on all sides by beautiful autumn leaves and blanketed in the glorious shade they provided.

The crowds were still just as thick in the park. I kept imagining that the finish line would be around every bend, but the path just kept on snaking on and on through the colorful foliage. In my mind I’d been equating reaching Central Park with reaching the finish line… but in reality the stretch through the park was a full two miles long. And it felt like an eternity.

Just when I thought I had nothing left to give, the sounds of cheering grew tenfold. I looked up and the crowds had grown, along with the skyscrapers overhead. This meant that I’d reached the southernmost part of the park… and the finish line really would be around the corner! My muscles were suddenly filled with supernatural strength that only the prospect of a finish line can bring. I made the final right turn and headed toward the finisher’s chute.

I’m really here. I’m in the Finisher’s chute! How different it looked from the road than from my couch, through a screen. Spectators filled the grandstands on either side and their cheering carried me forward, like the wind on the Verrazano-Narrows had, 26.2 miles ago. I raised my fist in triumph, holding back a floodgate of tears as I crossed the line. I just finished New York City!

What happened next, I can only remember in snippets… receiving my medal and holding it close… walking a mile on tight, useless legs to the bag check area… downing a chocolate protein shake… meeting up with Jin and inhaling a burger… forcing my legs not to give way as I stood on the subway... emerging from the subway near our friends’ apartment to find that the sun had already set. We’d left for the race in the dark, and now we were returning in the dark. I don’t know what was harder to believe; that an entire day had passed since standing in line in Times Square, or that only a day had passed.

Because within that day, I’d accomplished quite a bit. I may not have gotten a PR, but I finished my 10^th marathon in my second fastest time (3:56:35!) on the hardest course I’d ever run. I rode a roller coaster of emotions to come out on the other side with an increased sense of humility and respect for this 26.2-mile beast. I battled Fatigue – and lost – but I won a much bigger war: the war raging in my own head. And because of that victory I could finish my journey through the five boroughs with no regrets.

Grandma's Marathon

Date: June 18, 2016
Location: Duluth, MN

If I could describe my experience of running Grandma’s Marathon in two words, they would be: “smart decisions.” I know that’s not my usual way of describing my races… typically I use words like “resilience” and “perseverance,” and wrap it all up with a fairytale ending. Don’t get me wrong, this tale does have a happy ending, but the story is far from a fairytale. It’s the culmination of the things I’ve learned from the past few years of racing. Plain and simple.

My four months of training for Grandma’s went superbly. I hit all my goal paces and had only one minor case of tendonitis. But then four days before the race I was dying on my couch. My body was fighting whatever cold/flu virus I had so hard, I had no energy for anything else. The thought of walking to the kitchen, let alone running 26.2 miles seemed laughable. I checked the weather for Duluth on Saturday again…  high 70s, 90% humidity with a chance of rain. Great. I gulped more Emergen-C and prayed that all my hard work wouldn’t be for nothing.

The day before the race I was feeling a lot better, but the weather forecast was looking even worse. At least it was still saying it would be overcast with a chance of rain. Rain is good when it’s hot. Jin and I flew to Minneapolis and drove up to Duluth with Si and Nathan to pick up our race packets, eat a good dinner and get a good night’s rest. Even though the race didn’t start until 7:45, we’d be getting up at 4:45 to catch a shuttle to the starting area, 26 miles north of Duluth. (This race reminded me a lot of Milwaukee’s course: starting at a town 26 miles north of the finish line, and running the whole thing along one of the Great Lakes). 

The area around the expo was PACKED. Duluth is a small town and Grandma's brings in 10,000 runners each year! So the city population grows significantly overnight. The 5K was going on when we got to the expo and we got to see the winners cross the finish line. I couldn't wait to cross that line tomorrow. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worrying all evening about the weather the next day. The air was already sticky with humidity.

The next morning Jin, Si, and I took the shuttle 26 miles north to Two Harbors, MN. The whole time I just tried not to think about how long the ride felt. When we got to the starting area, it was humid but there was a nice cool breeze and no sun. So maybe this won’t be so bad. After dropping off our bags at gear check, making a quick porta-potty stop, we met up with our friends Nicole and Becky. The 5 of us we were standing around stretching, discussing our race tactics and then… the sun came out. Immediately I started sweating. Uh oh. The only other race I’ve run where I was sweating before it even started ended in disaster. This was not good. 

To say I was freaking out would be an understatement. I was glad to have so many friends around me to take my mind off of it, but in truth I felt doomed. Turtles are my spirit animal for several reasons, one of them being that, like a turtle, my body isn’t very good at regulating its own temperature. As we headed to the starting corral, my mind was racing with strategies to not let this heat beat me.

I was really glad I had decided to wear both of my water bottles on my belt. Staying hydrated would be key. I also made two quick decisions that I think made a huge difference in the end. I quickly removed my bib from my shirt and pinned it to my shorts so that I could take off my shirt if I needed to. I also decided right then that I wouldn’t go out at the pace I’d been planning. I’d trained to run an 8:35 pace with the goal of a 3:45 marathon, but I knew that was out of the question now. If I slowed down just a little, maybe I had a chance at a 3:50 instead. Or at least a shot at finishing, period.

My heart was pounding as the emcee counted down.

5-4-

It’s so hot. I’m doomed. I’m doomed.

3-2-

Stay calm, just breathe. Just breathe.

1.

As I crossed the starting line and settled into a pace, I tried not to think about how terribly my body had responded to the last race I’d run in heat like this. I couldn’t bear to think about that sinking feeling I got when my body suddenly shut down. Instead, I forced myself to think only of the things I’d learned from that race. Stay hydrated. I took a sip from one of my water bottles. Check. Pacing. My watch said I was running about 8:40. Check.

Jin was running beside me and I could see the sweat pouring down his face already. I pointed over to the left side of the course and he nodded in agreement. This course is infamous for its sparse shade and thus no relief from the brutal sun. Since the route heads south the whole time, the left side was the only place that we’d have any hope of shade. And sparse though it was, the trees lining the course did provide some relief. I think staying to the left for the whole race was another decision that made a huge difference in the end.

The first few miles went by quickly. Since we were running along Lake Superior (though we’d yet to see it behind the trees), there was a nice breeze coming off of it. It was weak, but it felt incredible. My core temperature was rising pretty quickly so off came the shirt. It’s amazing what a difference that thin layer of fabric makes. I felt 10 degrees cooler without it. Instead, I draped it over my shoulders to protect them from the sun, which was aimed directly on my left shoulder for the entire race.

About four miles in, we got our first glimpse of Lake Superior! For the next few miles we continued to run along it, which was great for the view, but not so great for the whole finding shade thing. Still, there’s something about that beautiful view that’s inspiring. You could hardly see where the water ends and the sky begins.

The next ten or so miles were pretty uneventful and so they all blend together in my memory. I only remember a few snapshots of specific moments: my Ipod falling off my belt due to a broken clip (and a very helpful runner behind me picking it up)… stopping to tie my shoe and loosing a few precious seconds… a smattering of local spectators lining the road every few miles… a country band playing to the right of the course… struggling to pour water from the volunteers into my now-empty bottles, and mostly pouring it all over my shoes. For the most part I just remember the trees. Putting tree after tree behind me with each step, and watching the shade – my saving grace – getting smaller and smaller as the sun climbed higher.

Throughout these miles, Jin was right beside me, matching me stride for stride, and it was comforting to know that if I suddenly began to struggle or had to stop due to the heat, I wouldn’t be alone. Jin always knows how to calm me down and talk me through such moments of panic. But a moment like that never came. And around mile 14 when I had to leave him behind, I had already gained a certain confidence in my ability to handle the conditions.

It was almost funny how wrong the weather forecast had been… (key word: almost). All week it said it was supposed to be cloudy and raining. Even last night my weather app said it would be completely overcast with a chance of rain. Ha! There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The only thing they were right about was the humidity. Humid + hot sun = the worst case scenario. So I was constantly taking stock of how I felt. I don’t think I’ve ever been so in tune with my body. The weather advisory signs along the course had started at yellow (“moderate risk”), and were now at red (“high risk”). But I was – amazingly – still feeling pretty good… as good as you can feel 14 miles into a marathon anyway.

At each water stop, the volunteers had started handing out ice and cold sponges. I grabbed one or both without fail each time. I have to give a shout-out to the race director and the volunteers. The aid stations were great – definitely a lifesaver. The runners around me would squeeze out the sponges over their heads, or put the ice in their mouths. But not me. Of all the things I’ve learned from getting my personal training certification, this may end up being the most useful: if a person has heat exhaustion, apply ice to three key areas in order to bring their body temperature down the quickest: armpits, neck, and groin. So that’s exactly what I did. (Yes – even groin). I was beyond caring about how ridiculous I looked. I cared about one thing only: staying cool enough to keep running.

The conditions on the course were now black: “extremely high risk.” I was about 5 miles away from the finish line, my average pace until this point was exactly 8:45, and there was a war going on in my head. On the one hand, I couldn’t believe I’d come this far in the heat and I was still running so fast! On the other, I was feeling pretty horrible and the thought of running five more miles felt impossible. How the heck was I going to do it? The sun was roasting my skin, the ice nestled in my armpits was melting faster than butter on the stove, and my stomach was sloshing with all the fluids I’d consumed (but my mouth still wanted more!).

Four miles left. I’d just reached the very edge of Duluth and the thin crowd of spectators was starting to thicken. The realization finally hit me that I would soon be finishing another marathon! The finish line was so close… and yet still far away. I have never felt so bipolar as in the last few miles of this race. Everything would feel hopeless and I absolutely couldn’t run one more step, let alone a few more miles. Then I’d reach a water station and grab some ice and feel a hundred times better. You are crushing this marathon! Look how fast you’re still going! This is the strongest you’ve ever been.  But then the cycle would start all over again a few minutes later. My body temperature would rise again, and with it my feelings of hopelessness.

Miles 23, 24, and 25 were my slowest yet, all over 9 minutes. I felt like this marathon would never end. By this point, I had reached the center of downtown Duluth. There were people cheering everywhere. I had felt on the brink of tears until I started focusing on the spectators. Grandma’s is known for being a great race because of this moment. When you reach Duluth, the excitement radiates from the small town. And after running most of the race with little crowd support, you can’t help but absorb that excitement. 

I quickened my pace as I rounded a few corners and then flew down the stretch that would take me to the waterfront. From here I could see the iconic Aerial Lift Bridge, and I knew I was just steps away from the finish line. All feelings of hopelessness lifted.

I picked up the pace even more as I ran past the large boat – the William A. Irvin – that’s permanently docked in Duluth. Not only was I about to finish this marathon, I was about to get a HUGE PR. If only four-hours-ago-me, who was freaking out at the starting line, could see the current me. She wouldn’t have believed it. 

Mile 26 turned out to be my fastest mile of the entire marathon: 8 minutes, 12 seconds! I rounded another corner, and there it was! The glorious finish line!! With the bridge just beyond it, framing it beautifully. The last stretch felt like slow motion. I wish I could write something deeply moving about those last few seconds before crossing the finish line, but really all I felt was relief; relief that I had made it to this point and was still running, and relief that finally, finally I would be able to stop running.

It was only after I’d crossed the line and downed an entire bottle of water that it really sunk in.

PR! PR! By nearly 6 minutes!

Tears stung at my eyes and blurred my vision as I stared at the time on my Garmin. 3:52:02. 3:52:02!! I felt like I had just achieved the impossible. 

I found a tent and some chocolate milk and savored my victory for a little while in the cool shade before reuniting with my friends. Now that we had stopped running, the weather didn’t seem so bad. We lingered for a bit to take in the beauty of Lake Superior, and Si and I even took the traditional dip in the frigid lake. It was like getting an ice bath, and it felt pretty amazing.

Later, I found out that the average finishing time this year was about half an hour slower than the previous year due to the weather conditions. Half an hour! I know that doesn’t mean I can subtract 30 minutes and say that’s what I would have run in more ideal conditions, but I do think it says something about my potential and the strength and fitness I’ve gained so far this year. And dare I say it? I think it says I truly am close to my ultimate goal of qualifying for Boston.

There have been a lot of times when the outcome of a race has felt unfair. When I’d worked and trained for a certain result, but fell short for reasons unexplainable or just completely out of my control. But Grandma’s was not one of those times. It could have been, given the extreme weather conditions, but it wasn’t. If there’s one thing I learned from my experience in Duluth, it’s never underestimate the power of hard work and smart decisions. Put those two together, and you just may get that fairytale ending.