Sunday, April 24, 2016

The Final Postscript: The Boston Marathon 2016

Is it I then that keep saying there is an hour Filled with expressible bliss, in which I have  No need, am happy, forget need’s golden hand, Am satisfied without solacing majesty, And if there is an hour there is a day,  There is a month, a year, there is a time In which majesty is a mirror of the self...---Wallace Stevens

There was a lot of luck involved in bringing me to the start line of the Boston Marathon in 2016.

I was lucky to be there because a snowstorm in Colorado nearly thwarted my travel plans. When my originally scheduled flight was cancelled, I booked myself another ticket under the guidance of my good friend Cynthia. She was ready to drive me to Denver to get a bus if I had to, but my replacement flight took off at 6:55 a.m. the Saturday before the Monday, April 18, race, one of the few planes to leave the Denver airport that day. So I made it after all, sitting on my connecting flight to Boston with two of my friends from the Boulder Striders.

I was lucky to be there because an unhappy hamstring and an unhappier right foot had sidelined me much of the previous summer. Thanks to a good physical therapist, a good podiatrist, smart coaching, some cushy shoes and my foam roller, these injuries had worried me but not stopped me from getting to Boston or from running some confidence-building races leading up to it.

I was lucky to be there because I didn't actually make it through the registration process back in September 2015, when my Indianapolis Monumental Marathon qualifying time of 3:43:25--though technically faster than the 3:45 required of women between 40 and 44--wasn't enough due to the immense swell of runners trying to enter the race. This had happened to me the year before, when I tried to enter Boston 2015 with a not-quite-enough qualifier from the Chicago Marathon. Thanks to Clif Bar, which hosted a contest for people like me who qualified for 2016 but didn't make the final cut, I found myself at last standing on the start line in Hopkinton, warm sunlight pouring down on me, my dream course laid out before me.

I was lucky to be there because I am not fast. I had been trying to get to Boston for six years, spending what some might call far too much money and far too much time on improving my running to the point that I could qualify. And while I had at last accomplished it and I was proud of having worked so single-mindedly at it, being there wasn't the definitive triumph that I had imagined. I had never smashed through the barrier of my qualifying time. I had edged under it, chipped away at it, hovered just below it. Hence the need to win a contest in order to actually toe the line. I wondered, standing there on that start line, in a little internal whisper of doubt, if I actually belonged there.

Yet there I was. The beginning was beautiful, just as I had known it would be, a narrow country highway in a quiet New England town. The weather was a bit warmer than I like, but really nothing to complain about. My head was full of scenes from the prior two days, the bombing survivors I'd seen honored at Fenway Park, the ribbons and banners in shop windows, the yellow daffodils in blue planters, the pre-race pilgrimages to the finish line, Amby Burfoot in the hotel elevator wearing a T-shirt with Joan Benoit's photo on it, Boston colors everywhere, my husband telling me of passing Meb Keflezighi going the other way on his run on the Charles River....I had spent my time pre-race in the Athletes' Village with local running friends from Boulder, snacking on white rolls my husband Dan had bought me the night before because he couldn't find bagels. My friends laughed at the rolls, but they made it into my pre-race photo, as they should have.
Pre-race, with rolls.
Soon the race was on, and I was running. I told myself that I would be happy with anything this long-awaited day brought, but thanks to that doubtful little voice, I still had something to prove. I wanted to run a personal best, to qualify for Boston 2017 at Boston 2016. The time goal I had in mind was 3:39:59, more than three minutes under that Indianapolis time that was still my personal record.

To do that, I needed to run smart, to save the emotion for later. My coaches and other runners had warned me that the rolling downhills of the first half of this race can take a toll on the legs that becomes excruciating when it manifests itself in the second half's infamous hills (even non-runners know those hills). As we began the first steep descent and I could tell my heart rate was low and my legs wanted to go, I kept in mind how years earlier Dan had told me before a 10K that I should pass no one in the first mile. That advice seemed even more important today. I imagined his voice saying that--"Pass no one"--and then, summoning the South African accents of my coaches, I imagined Colleen saying "mid-foot strike" and "quick feet" and Darren telling me that he is proud of me.

Mid-race, happy to be running in Boston
I also kept the need to stay cool, hydrated and fueled in mind. I got water at every aid station, one cup to drink and one to pour over my head and shoulders, and I usually got a cup of Gatorade, too. Stuffed into my bra were several Clif Shots and two packs of their Shot Bloks; I ate these every four miles. At no point in the race did I enjoy these breaks to eat and drink--I wanted to keep the rhythm of my pace uninterrupted--but I took them anyway, never walking but slowing to make swallowing easier and to avoid smashing into other runners.

I wore my Garmin GPS watch, but I turned off the auto-lap function and all of the sounds, and hit the lap button myself at every mile marker. This removed the stress of seeing my auto-laps not matching the course markers, which are the markers that matter. I also chose to glance at the watch only occasionally, never allowing myself to look at the total time elapsed.

My splits for the first third of the race ebbed and flowed with the hills, according to Garmin data:
Mile 1: 8:33
Mile 2: 8:18
Mile 3: 8:26
Mile 4: 8:18
Mile 5: 8:34
Mile 6: 8:23
Mile 7: 8:21
Mile 8: 8:28
Mile 9: 8:29

The half-marathon mark led to a little rough patch for me. I'd made my way through the Wellesley girls and into the little downtown area, and suddenly it felt....uphill. I still had half of the race to go. But this brief lag in optimism didn't last, and as the miles continued to click by I realized that for the first time in a marathon I was entering the late-teens without feeling fuzzy-brained, heavy-legged or out of control. My manual laps confirmed this: my pace was holding steady.

Mile 10: 8:23
Mile 11: 8:29
Mile 12: 8:17
Mile 13: 8:21
Half-Marathon Total Time: 1:50:50
Mile 14: 8:32
Mile 15: 8:24
Mile 16: 7:59
Mile 17: 8:25
Mile 18: 8:19

After this point, the data become dubious--only the slow 21st mile seems to match how I felt. Because after running through a refreshing spray-tunnel at the base of the infamous Newton Hills, I began the climb, still feeling good but definitely (or so I thought) slowed by the inclines. At one point, running on the left-most side of the road, I managed a grin at a spectator, who responded by saying, " look good! You look really good!!" Which gave me a lift.

Mile 19: 8:02
Mile 20: 8:30
Mile 21 (Heartbreak Hill): 8:56

In Newton tackling the hills; thanks to my high school friend Martin Peters for the pic
When I realized I had conquered Heartbreak, I found it in me to speed up again. My legs still felt decent, peppy, all the way until Mile 25, when I suddenly, really, truly did not want to run any more.

Mile 22: 8:01
Mile 23: 8:17
Mile 24: 8:03
Mile 25: 8:53

It was at that point that I saw Dan. His face, his voice, were like a steroid shot. I reminded my tired legs that we had just a mile to go, that Colleen had told me one can "always run one mile" and besides...I was there, running the Boston Marathon, about to experience the most storied homestretch in running.

And then almost too soon there it was, that right turn on Hereford and that left turn on Boylston and the beautiful flat straightaway to the line.

...and left on Boylston....
Race officials had painted a set of parallel blue lines down the middle of the road; it was like one of those moving walkways at the airport, accelerating each of my steps. Introvert that I am, I actually waved my arm to get the crowds to cheer. I imagined wings on my feet, diamonds on the soles of my shoes. I imagined reeling that finish line in like an elusive prize trout on the line of an obsessed angler.

That beautiful homestretch!
I forgot to lap my watch at Mile 26, but the split for the last 1.2 miles was 7:32. My final time: 3:40:40, an 8:25 pace. Though not the sub-3:40 I wanted, it was a decisive Boston qualifier and the marathon I'd always imagined, not only because it was Boston but because of how good I had felt for most of it: just two short rough patches that I'd easily overcome. I don't deceive myself that there wasn't luck involved in that, too; the marathon is a fickle beast and there will be bad races for me in the future. But I do feel I proved that all luck aside, I belonged there on that day and can belong there next year, too, if I choose to.

Finish line!
Will I choose to? No. It is my hope that the bib I could have gotten for Boston 2017 will go to a first timer who might otherwise be squeezed out due to supply and demand as I was for both 2015 and (until Clif Bar helped me out) 2016 too. I hope everyone who truly wishes to be there can run the Boston Marathon.

Someday I will go back. For now, though, it's time to move on to other goals in running and in life. There are many mountains to climb and a dwindling amount of time in which to ascend them.

What, I wonder, should I try for next?

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Epilogue: The Chicago Marathon (or BQ While 40)

"Now I'll be bold/As well as strong/And use my head alongside my heart/So tame my flesh/And fix my eyes/A tethered mind freed from the liesAnd I'll kneel down,/Wait for now/I'll kneel down/Know my ground
Raise my hands/Paint my spirit gold/And bow my head/Keep my heart slow
'Cause I will wait, I will wait for you...." 
--Mumford & Sons ("I Will Wait" could be the BQ by 40 theme song)
Last Sunday, the morning of October 13, 2013, dawned chilly and clear. I'd had a nervous taper week (is there any other kind of taper week?), but I'd made it to the day of the Chicago Marathon (my eighth 26.2) healthy, trained, mostly well-rested, without any excuse not to go for my goal: the sub-3:45 race that would qualify me for the Boston Marathon in 2015.

The plan was this: stay with the 3:45 pacers the whole time, until and if it became clear at the very end that I had more to give; hit as many aid stations as possible to keep my fuel and hydration levels topped off (and I had six Clif shots to supplement that); run entirely without music for the first time ever in a marathon; use my Garmin (chimes off) only to track total time elapsed so as not to freak myself out with momentary quirks of pace or differences between what the watch said and what the course mile and kilometer markers said; and ignore the pain and lead-leggedness that would inevitably set in, even if as I hoped it turned out to be a good day.

I got up early, got breakfast down (Frosted Flakes, a banana, an English muffin with butter and some apple juice), hugged my mom good-bye and left my hotel to meet Tara for the walk to the start line. Both of us were nervous, though she in yoga pants looked much better than I did in my giant orange sweatshirt from Goodwill. Having her with me for that long walk was a great help. We laughed our way to Gate One, getting stopped by no fewer than three eager race photographers, then hugged and said good luck to each other. I entered, headed straight to the porta-potties and had a good chat with a local Chicagoan named Kristy who gave me advice on which neighborhoods to enjoy and what else to expect on the course. From there, I wended my way to the entrance to my corral, Corral C, where I'd hoped to find some water to supplement what I had in the bottle I'd brought along. There was no water to be had, but a first-time marathoner, Daniel from Kentucky, offered to give me the rest of his after he took a last swallow to go with a gel. After one last hurried trip to the porta-potties, I slipped into the corral, elbowed my way to the 3:45 pacers and waited for the start. I hadn't been able to warm up, but other than that the pre-race business had gone smoothly.

And soon, at last, I was running.

It had been a while since I'd been in a race this big, and this one seemed to start faster than the other giant ones I'd done (New York in 2005, Houston in 2012). I had the sensation, as I tried to keep the pacers in sight during a frantic first mile, of going too fast, careening out of control. Once we emerged from the secure start area, huge crowds thronged the sidewalks. I looked for my mom on the downtown block where she said she'd be, but couldn't see her (I later found out that she saw me). I hung on to the back of the pace group and calmed myself with the reminder that this was just the first mile, that I wasn't really warmed up (but that would come) and that things would thin out and I'd feel more settled. 

Sure enough, by mile three, I felt much better. I drew closer to the pacers and felt my stride become regular. That's how things proceeded for the next several miles, into the half-marathon mark and beyond. My cousin Sarah was the first spectator I was expecting and actually saw, at Mile 10, and then there was Marcia, wearing her Boston jacket, at the halfway point. All the while, I drank water and Gatorade faithfully, and took a gel at the 10K and 20K marks. My energy remained high, and my legs felt strong. I was able to enjoy the continued cool temperatures, the music and sights of the course and the crowds. As far as the pacers went, I ebbed and flowed with them, sometimes lagging behind, sometimes hanging right on their shoulders (there were three of them to choose from!) but never losing them.

I don't know Chicago at all, so the streets and neighborhoods passed in a blur of noise and Gatorade and turns. The crowds impressed me, and the weather was so good that I enjoyed both the cold breeze and the patches of sun. Only two things in those early miles annoyed me: one of our pacers had a gym teacher's whistle that he frequently and loudly blew to get the crowds riled up (or perhaps to keep eager followers from getting too close--it worked on me); and at one point I passed a runner dribbling a basketball as he went along--I was glad when the thunkety-thunk of that ball faded away behind me.

At Miles 18 through 20, I kept alert to the possibility of the Wall. I took another gel and the Wall never came. But then I realized my right shoelace was loosening. By just past Mile 20, it was completely untied. This was the only really tense moment in the race: should I stop, for safety's sake, and tie it, and risk being dropped by the pacers, or should I go on? In the end, I decided to stop. But to speed things up, I asked a spectator on the sidelines to tie it for me. He was so nice, obliging this weird request immediately, tying it tightly and asking if I wanted a double-knot. I turned that down, thanked him several times and took off. The pacers were way ahead but still in sight, their small white signs bobbing, and I knew my real race had just begun.

Still, somehow, I stayed calm. I had six miles to reel them in and I vowed to do it consistently but gradually. In the midst of this I snuck a look at the Garmin's pace feature and saw numbers in the 8-teens and 8:20s. I worried that was too fast--but I had no choice, and better too fast now than early on. We turned back north, headed toward the park and the finish line. The pacers and their small signs were closer. My legs hurt, but I remembered what Cynthia said about embracing the pain, learning to hurt, and some lines from my friend Jill ("Believe believe believe") and my friend Mandy (who said saying "This is awesome" at times when it isn't awesome would change my point of view). I thought about friends who had lost homes in the recent Colorado floods, and about my friend Max, who lives outside most of the year. Most of all, though, I reflected on how lousy I'd feel if I failed to BQ after getting this close--and I knew that feeling would be worse than sore quads and calves of concrete.

At Mile 24, after not having seen them anywhere else on the course, I finally saw my mom and our old friends Trish, Tiffany and Tom. I managed a smile and a surge. In another half-mile, I drew level again--at last--with the shoulder of one of the pacers (not the one with the whistle). At Mile 25, still with him, I could see a blue and white sign that looked big enough to be the finish line. "Is that it?" I asked him, the first words I'd said since saying good luck to Daniel, the first-timer at the start. "No," he said. "You still have a right turn and then a left after that. It'll be another 400 meters." I nodded grimly.

I stayed with him a little longer, until I saw the sign that said 800 meters to go. I kicked, and wonder of wonders, there was a little kick left. I hit a small hill over a bridge. That slowed me a bit, but I'd been warned about this and, really, it was just a speed bump and I got my turnover back on the downside. I rounded that last left turn...and there it was, the real finish line. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, under the banner and across both timing bumps. I hit the watch, stopping it at 3:44:10. My unofficial result, it turned out, was 3:44:06, an 8:33 pace, a squeaker, but the real thing: a Boston qualifying time.

I had done it. Three years of work, preceded by seven years of vague dreaming, had come to fruition. I called my husband Dan. I laughed out loud. Those years included misses and sulking, doubt and angst, lots of money spent and air and road miles logged. They also included lessons I needed to learn--patience, perseverance, humility--and the biggest lesson, that this kind of aspiration isn't accomplished without help from others. I formed new friendships and deepened old ones with runners both local and far-off, people who have taught me about tough goals and good humor. And I learned (again) how lucky I am to be married to Dan (the steadiest, most patient, humble and good-humored person I know) and that having kids isn't the end of freedom but the beginning of another kind of freedom. Before I had my kids, I don't know if I would have been able to cultivate the kind of mental and physical toughness I needed to BQ.

How was this training cycle different enough to have this outcome?

I'd had a string of crappy races that started almost a year ago at the California International Marathon and lasted all the way through the Georgetown to Idaho Springs Half Marathon in August. There were no PRs, and with the exception of the weather at CIM no valid excuses for not running well. This year, I've had tons of fun with friends and enjoyed more time in the mountains than I have in years....but the BQ felt like it was getting less rather than more likely.

Then I got some good advice from two people: my friend Cynthia and my coach Darren. After Georgetown, Cynthia told me it seemed like all I needed was to learn to hurt. And after the same race, I had lunch with Darren, who seconded that and also told me that I needed to stop worrying about the BQ and just focus on executing a decent race. I thought of their advice on every training run after that. Because it was true: all along, I've hoped (against reason) that my training would get me to a place where running 26.2 miles at an 8:34 or better pace would feel....easy. I had to accept that this was not going to be the case. And over the six weeks of hard training that followed, I did accept it.

I also did my best, while training, to focus on that training and all the details that go into making training effective, instead of fretting about how I'd feel if I didn't BQ. Those details are these:

1) I cleaned up my diet. No, I didn't eliminate all "fun" eating, I didn't go vegan or dairy-free or gluten-free or alcohol-free or even entirely sweets-free. That's never going to be me. But I ate a ton more vegetables (a lot in the form of V8 juice), I limited things that might make for gut issues on long runs, and I monitored my weight weekly. Before the Eugene Marathon in April (a bitter disappointment I ran in 3:57 with a big bonk at mile 17), I gained five pounds in the last month of training. That did not happen this time. I've learned that sugar really packs pounds on me. I never want to give up sugar entirely--I get a lot of pleasure out of treats--but I do plan to make it an occasional rather than a regular feature of my life.

2) I made my hard training days hard and my easy ones really easy. It's a cliche, but I knew I needed to take it seriously. By hard, I mean I saw 5s on paces for some speed intervals for the first time in my life. I did all my training outside, even during the flood days of mid-September, so I could learn the feel of various paces without help from a treadmill's steady belt. I also took real advantage of drawing energy from others. I did both of my two 20-mile runs (and several others) with the Boulder Striders group, often getting up early to get some miles out of the way before meeting them for hard hill intervals or tempo efforts, and then running some miles alone afterwards.

As for those easy days, by easy, I mean super-easy, even taking walk breaks if that's what it took to keep my heart rate nice and low or if I felt overly fatigued.

3) I followed my coach's advice to the letter. In Eugene, he had counseled me to start the race slow. Caught up in the fervor of wanting to go to Boston in 2014 in the wake of the bombings, I forgot that and threw caution to the wind, going out with a pace group that started too fast. After that, I vowed not to ignore his counsel again. This time, I was religious with weight training (he scheduled it every Thursday, and I supplemented with core work on other days). I stuck to the heart-rate ranges he prescribed, warmed up as he described and tried to find the kinds of courses he wanted me to run on (flat when he said so, hills when he wanted them). With my doctor's blessing, I even took the vitamins Darren recommended (a multi, Omega 3s, Vitamin D and the occasional iron supplement).

When race day rolled around, and I had a roster of great training runs under my belt, beautiful weather ahead and no illness to hamper me, and with the latest runs indicating I might be able to do paces well under the BQ threshold, Darren told me not to feel disappointed but that he wanted me to be conservative. He wanted me to run a good race that left me happy but wanting more, to go with the 3:45 pacer and stick to him or her "like a fly on his back."

And that is what I did.

Do I want more? Yes, of course! Any red-blooded runner would. But my days of tunnel-vision obsession with one time goal are, for a good long while anyway, over. I want to run a 5K PR. I want to run a half-marathon PR. I'd love to get my marathon time under 3:40 (so I don't have to endure what a lot of hard-working worthy Boston qualifiers this year went through: qualifying but not by enough to actually get into the race itself; I am aware that may well happen to me next September).

But none of that has to happen on a timetable. In fact, none of it has to happen at all, as long as I never stop trying. My real goal is to run with joy for the rest of my life, to be a good example for my kids and to take what I've learned about patience and what it takes to achieve a tough goal and apply it to other areas of my life.

I hope my story here helps someone else out. Never write yourself off as "too slow." Remember: I ran my first marathon more than 16 years ago in a time of 5 hours 26 seconds. In 2005, before I had my twins, I ran the New York Marathon in 4:14. My BQ time at age 40 is a full hour and 16 minutes faster than my first marathon at age 24, and a half-hour faster than that NYC time at age 32.

The teen who quit cross-country because of all kinds of unfounded insecurities has turned into a grown-up runner who knows she never wants to quit, not ever again--and, even better, knows she won't.

Raise my hands. Paint my spirit gold.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Group Track Session, 40th Birthday...and Goodbye!

In the prior post, I said I don't believe birthdays are a reason to be "princess for a day."

But I have to say, I had one great long birthday weekend. Apologies for this long account! I'm letting myself indulge since this is The Last Post on BQ by 40.

It started bright and early on Saturday morning when I went to Boulder to join up with the Boulder Striders, a running group led by Colleen De Reuck. Darren put their track workout on my schedule, reversing his prior stance of not allowing me onto the track. Since my last attempt at a group run didn't work out (which is to say, I wimped out because it was cold), I was glad to get one in before closing the blog.

Needless to say, I was one nervous introvert, and the fact that this was the workout added to my nerves:

Warm Up 15-20 min/Stretch/4 x 100m strides
Start 2,400m @ Half Marathon Effort 3 min active rest
Then 1,600m @ 10 km Effort with 2 min active rest
Then 3 x 800m with 2 min active rest as follows:
--1st One @ 10 km Effort//2nd One @ 3-5 sec faster than #1//3rd One @ 3-5 sec faster than #2
End 1,600m @ 10 km Effort
Cool Down 5-10 minutes

I know many of you do speedwork that's tougher than that, but that's a big one for me.

There wasn't a lot of talking when I arrived. Everyone looked fit, but not scarily so, and Colleen has a way of putting people at ease. We set off on a warm-up jog, then did some stretching and drills together and then the strides. Cynthia, who had told me she was coming out to watch, take photos and then have brunch with me, arrived about this time (very nice of her to watch in the chill!). She asked me if I was nervous. I nodded yes.

But then there was nothing for it but to start. The slowest group went first. I asked them how fast they expected to do their 2,400 meters in, and they said at an 8:15 pace. So I went with them. My sea-level half-marathon in October was at 8:09, so I figured I'd give back a few seconds for the altitude.

Before I could think about it any more, off we went. I stayed behind a group of four women. The day was beautiful, chilly but on its way to warming up to the 50s, and I was comfortable in a thin race T-shirt, arm warmers and tights. The 2,400 was over before I knew it, and we were at about an 8:00 pace. We jogged a little, drank a little Gatorade...and then it was time for the first 1,600. Bam! Over even more quickly. And well under 8 minutes. I had looked down at my watch in disbelief at one point. Was I really going that fast? Was it really true that running with others is all it takes to make paces that are laborious

Big thanks to Cynthia for taking photos. Not a bad view for a high school track! That's me in the white shirt.
And that's the way it went the rest of the time. The rest periods were so short I had no time to dread the next interval. And the intervals felt much easier than they should have for the paces my Garmin recorded. By the time we finished the final 1,600 I was hooked.

That's Colleen in the blue jacket cheering us on as we wrapped up one of the intervals.
I hope Darren puts more of these track workouts on my schedule. Next weekend I'm going to try to hook up with the other group that I bailed on last weekend. This time it will be for a long slow one, and I think I'm going to like that, too.

Cynthia and I left quickly and went to watch a nearby 4-mile cross-country race. Colleen had left the track workout early to do this one, so we go to see her as well as numerous other fast Boulder-area runners in the women's race. The winner (at a blistering 5:29 pace, finishing in 22:29) was Brianne Nelson, whom Kathy and I had met in the airport when we were headed out to the Olympic Marathon Trials and the Houston Marathon a year ago. Colleen took 9th. The top ten were all under a 6-minute pace on a hilly grass course. Amazing!

After a giant piece of quiche at brunch with Cynthia, I spent the rest of Saturday hanging out with my family, including my mother-in-law, sister-in-law and nephew who are visiting from the East Coast. Dan made homemade pizza on Saturday night, and all weekend I broke with my standard practice and let myself eat dessert whenever I want. I'll be back on the wagon starting tomorrow, after all.

Sunday was work, but it didn't feel like it since I found a sheaf of birthday cards and treats waiting for me.

Today I woke up early and started the day as I usually do: with a run by myself. It was 45 easy minutes with five strides at the end. I took in the clear view of the mountains to the west, the fresh air, the thwack-thwack of my feet, and I enjoyed every one of those strides. And then it was time to get ready for the party!

Here's a photo of the cake:

Chicking the Grim Reaper since 1973!
Everyone arrived at 10 a.m. and we took off on our 4K run at about 10:20. Most of the guests brought their kids, so the lead pack (which included Cynthia, Caolan (who I met in person for the first time today!), and my old friends Erin and Amy) also had to function as de facto sitters-on-the-run for a bunch of eager under-8 cyclists (thanks for that, you guys!). I ran in front for a bit, then slipped back to chat with some slower runners and the walkers...and of course Dan, his sister (my awesome sister-in-law Kate) and my little nephew Sam (who was a bit baffled by the whole proceeding...he preferred the playground at the park). I also got to run for a bit with my friend Josie's eager black lab, Summer. Summer's ordinary pace is my 800-meter track pace, though, so I didn't run very far with her today (have a hill workout tomorrow!).

Waiting to run!

Caolan, Cynthia and Amy, ready to lead!
The pack hits the park.
It was about as perfect a day as Colorado offers in January: temperatures in the 50s, brilliant sunshine, no wind. We all finished back at my house with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. With the help of a friend, I lit a literal 40 candles on the cake and then we feasted.

With Cynthia and the remains of the cake.
I said it last year, and I'll say it again: birthdays are not a reason to feel sad or stressed about the passage of time--and that's just as true of the ones with 5s and 0s on your new age. All of my friends tell me the 40s will be the best decade yet, and I do not doubt them. Be glad to be alive! It's a gift and a blessing.

And with that, I'm signing off. I didn't BQ by 40, but I'm planning to BQ as soon as I can. I hope I still know many of you in 10 years, when I plan to celebrate my 50th birthday by running 50 miles.

We have lots of time to train. Care to join me?

Friday, January 18, 2013

Wrapping Up!

On Monday I'm hosting a bunch of friends for my birthday, which lucky for me falls on the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday this year. Everyone's arriving at 10 a.m. and we're going out for a 4-kilometer run around my neighborhood before we down some bagels and cake.

Today, with an easy run on the schedule, I mapped out the route.

After a trip through my neighborhood, the run takes in this park

and then winds up back in my driveway. Four kilometers is almost exactly 2.5 miles. I'm hoping kids and spouses will come, too, and that those who don't run will want to walk or bike or push strollers. I plan to spend time with everyone out there, jogging back and forth, walking when I feel like it, just soaking in the day. I don't believe in being "princess for a day" on my birthday, but I do believe that birthdays should be an occasion for gratitude and celebration.

I'm not good at writing inspiration, and while I do like reading the wise thoughts of others, I prefer to do it at certain times when it's really needed (like, say, the night before a race). And I don't think I'm particularly wise when it comes to running. But since this is my second-to-last post, I also wanted to share with you guys a few things I've learned through this sport. Apologies if some of them are platitudinous. I'm writing this for myself as well, because these are things I need reminding of.

1. The major thing that running and life have in common is that they rarely offer straight paths to any destination. Outside circumstances will interfere in some things. In others, you will change, and so (often, though not always) will your goals. You'll know the difference between when you're giving up on something and when you're simply moving on from it, in both running and life.

2. You can draw motivation from negative forces. It's no fun to live knowing you quit something you shouldn't have. But it's also a powerful thing to use that as fuel for another challenge, one you'll see through. Along the same lines: be aware of your faults (one of mine is laziness), and use that awareness to push you in the opposite direction from where those faults would take you if you let them control you.

3. You won't accomplish everything you want. Sorry to say it, but it's true. I am not a believer in "If you dream it, you can do it." At some point, all of us will bump up on the ceiling set by our innate abilities and other factors outside our control. But I don't think we should allow that to make us sad or sullen (at least not for very long). You can accomplish a lot more than you think if you put in the work. Be patient.

4. Your running will give you moments that are sublime. You don't have to be fast to have these moments. These moments have nothing to do with talent. They have to do with you recognizing and satisfying your in-born human need to move. So don't be jealous of others. You're getting the best part of running simply by doing it.

Thanks again to all of you for reading this! Remember that if you want to receive the race reports that I plan to write as I continue my quest for a Boston qualifying time, please email me at terzahbecker [at]