Ugh

What a week.

A canceled flight. A 24-hour business trip to Orlando. A tight deadline that my editor insisted on - but after busting my butt to file my story, the newsroom emptying for the for the Thanksgiving Day holiday - she didn't even stick around to read it.

My running regimen has also been a bit lax. After a solid 13-mile run last Saturday, I didn't run on Sunday because I spent much of the day on planes or waiting in airports with other laptop-toting road warriors. Monday, I cranked out 5.3 miles on a treadmill in a gym pulsating with hyperactive club music and steroid-enhanced dudes with huge pecs and toothpick-thin legs.

Tuesday was a quiet but quad-busting 30-minute ride on a stationary bike and some crunches, neglecting to lift weights because ... I just didn't feel like it.

And today, after writing my brains out, I decided to hoist a lemontini and nibble on tapas with a friend after work instead of logging a 12 X 400 speed workout.

Do I feel guilty?

Yes.

Enough to brave the the bone-chilling weather at midnight on a windy November evening and doing a fartlek run down lonely, rain-spattered streets?

Not on your life.

Extreme Weather, Part Deux

My 8-mile jaunt yesterday was another rain-soaked ramble. Wind and storms lashed Washington, D.C. all day until everything quieted around 4:15 pm. At 4:25, I laced up my running shoes and hit the trails.

Which were covered in wet leaves, twigs and puddles. Way too slick for my planned fartlek workout. The trail was also an obstacle course; I hurdled a few tree limbs here and there and dodged flooded areas.

I enjoyed the run - hardly anyone out there, only two die-hard runners and a handful of bicyclists (and Jeanne, only 2 of them followed trail etiquette and said "On your left").

When I turned around at the half-way mark, it was almost completely dark. I could barely see the trail ahead of me, so I had to slow down lest I fall. I did trip a couple of times over unseen twigs and splashed in a puddle or two. First 4 miles: 34:48. Last 4 miles: 37:50.

A Big Thankee!: Goes to Steve Runner at the Phidippedations podcast. He was kind enough to mention this little blog, and he read part of an email I sent him about my experience at the Marine Corps Marathon, which he also ran. I'm in episode 70.

Steve, I was cranking out 6 "hill" miles on an elliptical trainer when listening to that podcast, and I almost fell off in surprise when I heard my name. Thanks for the shout-out!

At Least I Got Out of Bed

I ran a local Veteran's Day 10K in the cold, wind and unrelenting rain on Sunday, in what the Scots call a scowthering gale. The weather was so bad that of the 1,600 runners registered, only half of them showed.

I decided it to take it easy. I wasn't mentally prepared. Plus, I read in The Competitive Runner's Handbook that one shouldn't run any race within a month of finishing a marathon.

"Leisurely" is an understatement: I jogged slowly with two friends, L. and M. And when I say slow, I mean glacial. The first 2.3 miles were at 11:20 to 11:30/mile pace! I knew I needed to pick it up when, in only Mile 2, I saw the leaders pass us, coming the other way.

Also, we were completely sodden. The fleece jacket I had tied around my waist was heavy with rain, and water squished in between my toes. My fingers were stiff and cold as icicles. The sooner I finished the race, the sooner I could get out of the elements.

I bade goodbye to my friends and gradually sped up. No spectators lined the course. Just a bunch of wet and miserable runners, some of whom were walking with their heads down in the cold hard rain.

Whew, the headwind was killer in the last two miles. I kept a hand on my head to keep my cap from blowing off. I flew past dozens of runners, putting in a good effort, but not all-out racing. Way too late for a PR.

I ran the remaining 3.7 to 3.8 miles or so in 28:36. Good enough.

Bex is a fraud

I almost forgot to tell you this.

See that green medal in the photo? The one almost hidden by the gold and scarlet Marine Corps Marathon medal? Dianna asked me about that when she saw another photo of me after the race.

Well, Jeanne, who raised money in the MCM for the Organization for Autism Research, said I, Richie, and David could drop off our gear bags at the OAR's tent in the race's Charity Village. Much easier than hoofing it to the regular gear bag area, which was a mile or so away.

The OAR contact gave the okay for us to do that, she said. There were only a few other people in the tent when I arrived, and they seemed busy. So I dropped off the bag without talking to anyone, then jogged to the race start with only minutes to spare.

After the race, I went back to the tent to retrieve my bag. I was tempted to grab some pretzels, oranges, and water from a table groaning with food and drinks for runners. But they weren't for me. Then the OAR dude-in-charge walked up with a big smile on his face.

"Congratulations!" he said, beaming. "And thank you so much for running for us! We really appreciate it!"

Then he ceremoniously placed a green OAR medal around my neck. I mutely gazed at him, shocked.

"Now, go over there," he said, pointing to a big sign listing the race's OAR charity runners. "Find your name and check it off, and we'll take a nice photo of you."

Next to the sign was a volunteer enthusiastically taking photos of a real OAR charity runner.

"Uh, thank you! I will!" I said, smiled, and ducked my head. I was too embarrassed to tell him that I was a fraud. That I did not raise money and run for his organization. And that the only reason why I was there was because his tent had free space for gear bags.

He stood there for a moment, uncertain, then must've figured that I was tired. So he turned, walked a few steps away, and started talking to other race volunteers.

I grabbed my bag, nervously glanced back at him .... and hightailed it out of there, stealing away like a thief in the night.

Needless to say, I have since made a donation to the OAR.

Cast Your Ballot!

Civic duty: Time to exercise, folks. Not your body, this time - but your right to vote! Have you voted yet? Take advantage of this privilege that we so often take for granted. I voted at 6:30 a.m., and it was heartening to see a steady stream of people walking into our local polling place - an elementary school - at that early hour.

Back to your regular programming: I agree with Gandaman in his comment in my previous post that running is tougher on the body and the mind. Unlike cycling, you can't coast when you run. Nor can you take advantage of high-tech carbon frames that help your speed.

"It's just you and the pavement," he stated. Well said.

Speaking of pain: I went for my first run post-Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday. 8 miles. Easy, right? The first three were. But the last five - on a course that included a couple of hills - made my legs and even arms sore. Note to self: Schedule massage ...

Lance's Newfound Respect ...

for runners. He finished today's NYC Marathon in 2:59:35. An admirable effort, though he had hoped for a faster time. But he was humbled by both the physical and mental rigors of running 26.2 miles. This, from today's New York Times (bold italics mine):

Earlier, Armstrong had said that he could possibly have run a sub-2:30 if he had trained, but now he was quite sure that another marathon was out of the question. Nothing in cycling ever came close to three hours of activity at this level, he said.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said that I’ve never felt this bad, ever,” he said. “My legs are killing me. My back doesn’t feel that great ... I’m really suffering.”

Olympian runners such as Joan Benoit Samuelson and Alberto Salazar paced him. Don't you wish you had that kind of help?!

Congrats: Go to my friend, P., who paced me in last week's MCM, and who finished NYC in 3:52:34. A PR!

MCM Debriefing #3: Miles 17-26.2

Some of the schwag you get at the Marine Corps Marathon expo.

Mile 17, 8:47: A kind soul holds out a bowl of Jolly Rancher candy. I grab a couple and pop them in my mouth. Raspberry and apple. Mmm. Then I start choking and spit them out. People are few and far between here, a long, lonely and extremely windy peninsula of parkland.

Mile 18, 9:05: A. is still talking. The lungs on this girl :-) She asks, "Do you want an orange?" after we run past a bystander with a bowl of citrus slices.

"No," I said. Pause.

"YES!" I said. She runs back to the orange person and returns two minutes later. She runs in front of me and passes an orange slice behind her back. I grab it and greedily chew.

Mile 19, 8:56: Somewhere around here, I have the last GU. I've had a lot to eat in this race. Luckily, I have an iron stomach. A. runs in front of me for a few minutes, trying to block the wind. But I'm scared of running into her, and stay to the side.

Mile 20, 9:10: We leave Haines Point and head toward the dreaded 14th Street Bridge. The crowd roars. I run up a ramp and glance at the time clock: 2:58:10. I look for my friend, H., who's supposed to run with me from here to the end. I also look for work colleagues who said they'd come. But all I see is a blur of faces.

Mile 21, 9:17: The wind, which has been gusty and strong all morning, really gives me a whipping on the sere and desolate 14th Street Bridge, which is also on an incline. A. left me about a half-mile back, having run 10 miles with me. I already miss her.

For the first time, I see scores of runners walking, their heads down, or stretching. These are the folks who went out too fast. I run by them, though my calves are starting to spasm.

My local running club has a cheering section here, and I see one skinny dude holding a tub of orange slices. I recognize him - he's usually flying around the track with the rest of the hares.

I want an orange. But I'm too tired to talk. So I stretch out my hand, point at the oranges, and say, "Uggghh!"

He understands and hands me a slice. I manage to say "Thank you!" before popping the orange in my mouth. I chew madly, then chuck it over the bridge.

Mile 22, 9:21: I run past a woman wheelchair participant that I've seen off and on throughout the race. She looks dog-tired. She's trying mightily to push up the never-ending incline. I yell encouragement.

Mile 23, 9:17: In Crystal City, a neighborhood of restaurants, shops and office buildings. The crowds are back in force. I run through a corporate Target tunnel that blares rock music.

Several women hold out mini-Dixie cups of what looks like apple juice. I'm struck with an overpowering thirst. I run over with a glazed look in my eyes.

"It's beer!" they say. I swerve away.

I see Rich. I shout and wave. He's about a 1 and 1/2 miles behind me now, and walking. He's not smiling anymore. I try to send out good vibes. But I'm not feeling so chipper myself.

Mile 24, 9:30: When is this effing race going to end? For the first time, I walk through a water stop as I drink a cup of Gatorade. Ahhhh. Start running again. I see a spectator holding a banana and I almost grab it. But I'm too tired to peel it. I run past.

Mile 25, 9:18: What. The. F. I hate this race. Then a Marine steps up and says, "Stay positive! You're doing great! You're almost there!" I'm too exhausted to say thank you, but I smile gratefully. I push on.

Mile 26. 9:32: On a long stretch of highway. Lots of folks stopping to stretch. A few sit down, defeated. A veritable sea of the halt and the lame. A military emergency vehicle streaks by, lights flashing and horns blaring, with a runner wrapped up like a mummy in the back.

At the last water/Gatorade stop, I try to grab a cup of water, but the Marine holding it hands it someone else. "Oops, sorry," he says, and chuckles. My outstretched hand turns into a fist.

"Must not punch Marine," I think. "Must. Not. Punch."

I unclench my hand and run further down, where a dozen Marines want to hand me Gatorade. Love the Marines.

I am so tired of running. Every muscle in my legs and back hurt. I close my eyes. Then open them. Yep. Still running. Damn.

Mile .2, 2:26: Spectators jump up and down and scream wildly. I see E. for the first time as I run up that last steep, quad-busting hill. He's yelling my name and pointing a videocamera at me. I wave him off. "Blah, blah, blah," I think.

I am not excited. I am so over this damn race. I dimly realize that this is the exhaustion and glycogen-depletion talking.

With about 1/8 of a mile to go, I stop. Several runners go by and say, "C'mon!" I start running. After about 10 paces, I stop again. Take a breath. Finally realize that the faster I go, the sooner I can lie down.

I start running. And cross the finish line in 3:56:53.

A hunky Marine places a medal over my neck and congratulates me. Then wraps me up in a space blanket. I grab a bottle of water and slowly waddle with other sweaty runners to the Iwo Jima Memorial. I find a small spot of grass and lie down.

I close my eyes and turn my face to the sun. And smile.

MCM Debriefing #2: Miles 3-16

Heading to the MCM expo last Friday afternoon, two days before race.

Mile 3: 8:45: Crested the hill, which was nuthin' to my rested and glycogen-loaded legs. Running down beautiful and leafy Spout Run Parkway, about a 3 percent decline. Bill is still telling me to slow down even though I'm on pace. I want to take advantage of the free speed and let gravity propel me down the hill.

Mile 4: 8:34: Still looking for the 3:50 pace group. Nowhere to be seen. But my friend, P., jumps in and we start running together. Cool. Then I see a guy wearing a big sticker with "3:50" scrawled on it.

"You the pacer?" I asked him.

He seemed surprised and a bit abashed. "No, sorry," he said. "They're ahead."

Damn.

Mile 5: 8:59: Ran across the Key Bridge and into Georgetown. The crowds are thick here and they're screaming like crazy. Trying to soak it all in while listening to P. talk and keeping track of Bill, who seems to be laboring. At the next water stop, he stops, and I lose him.

Mile 6: 8:29: In Rock Creek Park. The slight incline doesn't bother me. In fact, going a teensy bit too fast, as P. has a tendency to speed up. I put him to use by handing him a "just plain" GU and ask him to open it. He does and I gulp it down.

Mile 7: 8:52: P. is on his cell phone talking to our friend, A., who will meet us somewhere around Mile 10. Through all of the water/Gatorade stops, I keep running, but grab a cup and try to drink. Most of the Gatorade goes over my face. Luckily, I have booty socks over my hands (couldn't find gloves), so I just wipe my face each time with 'em. Handy.

Mile 8: 8:42: Somewhere around here, as I'm flying back south along Rock Creek, I see Rich on the other side, about a half-mile behind me. "Rich!" I say and wave. "Bex!" he replies. The crowd swallows him.

Mile 9: 8:46: Near the Lincoln Memorial. Gorgeous day. Gorgeous crowds. I want to hug all the people lining the course. P. hands me an orange slice and I stick it in my mouth so when I smile all you see is orange. I chew contemplatively, thinking, "This is about as good as it's going to get in a race."

Mile 10: 8:52: Crowds are so thick here I feel like I'm running in a tunnel. A. sees us and jumps in. I have an entourage!

Mile 11: 8:47: On Constitution Avenue running towards the Capitol. A line of kids in orange t-shirts have their hands out, waiting for runners to high-five them. I cut across the course and go down the line. Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. We cheer. "Feeling frisky?!" says P.

Mile 12: 8:57: Running by the Smithsonian. The wind is fierce, and I put a hand on my head to keep my hat on. I have another GU. A group of what looks like Japanese boy and girl scouts are walking to the museums. They seem confused that a race is going on. Konichi-wa!

Mile 13: 9:04: Starting to get tired. Also running up a slight incline. The Marines are handing out Gels here. A. grabs a couple and gives them to me. I drop one and run back and pick it up over A.'s objections. "Don't stop!" she said. "I'll pick them up!"

Mile 14: 8:48: P. jumps out here, having run 10 miles with me. However, he runs in front of us to take a few photos before heading to Mile 20 to see me go over the 14th Street Bridge. A. revs up the crowd by raising her arms and saying, "Give it up for Bex!" Although she says my real name, of course. The crowds cheer wildly. I feel like Deena Kastor.

Mile 15: 9:05: Windy, windy, windy. A. talks about hoping to qualify for Boston at the Houston Marathon next January. I try to concentrate on what she's saying instead of the wind. A bunch of photographers snap our sweaty mugs, and A. jumps out of the way so she won't be in the pix.

Mile 16: 8:47: On Haines Point. Not much talking here. Throughout this race, but especially after Mile 4, I run with groups of men. They grunt every once in a while. So do I. Not sure what about. But it feels good. Primal.

Ahead: Jolly Ranchers, musle spasms, and Runner Down!