10k hooray!

At the freakishly early hour of 7:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I ran the first ever "Heroes Half and 10k" here in Seattle. The 10k course was pretty great: just a big loop around Lake Union, starting and finishing at Gasworks Park. My goal? To finish in 60 minutes or less.

I thought that, if there was any course that could get me to that goal, this one would be it. The paths and roads around Lake Union are flat as a pancake. And the event wasn't well-publicized, so not a lot of runners participated. I assumed (correctly and thankfully) that I'd be able to run as quickly as I wanted, without worrying about crowds slowing me down.

In order to finish in 60 minutes, I figured out that I'd have to run 9:40-minute miles. Since I'm comfortably doing 10:00 miles on long runs -- and have managed 9:20 miles on 4-milers, I thought I could probably pull it off. But I still had enough uncertainty to feel motivated, excited and a bit nervous about the run.

After truly gigantic downpours on Friday night, Saturday dawned cool and cloudy -- but not rainy or windy. What an encouraging omen! And, as my friend SAJ says, ideal weather for running with all the oxygen in the air. I got up at 5:00, ate breakfast, got dressed and rode my bike down to the race start at Gasworks Park. The fact that it was first-time event showed in the details but everyone was in a good and forgiving mood and there were no catastrophes. The organizers started people in unofficial waves -- basically letting groups of roughly 50 runners start together, and signaling those behind to wait. My wave was probably the 6th or 7th to start out.

I didn't feel great at the beginning: my nerves were showing. My stomach was jumping around and I had a hard time catching my breath. I told myself that I had trained to be able to do what I was attempting, that I wasn't reaching for an unreasonable goal, and distracted myself with my iPod. I could tell before the first mile was even complete that it wasn't going to be one of those wonderful runs that feels great and empowering; it was going to be a push to finish in the time I wanted. But I kept working for it -- reminding myself of how happy I'd be if I pulled it off.

It helped that I was able to get ahead of most of the people in my wave fairly quickly. It's a rare occasion for me to be able to pass other runners, so I did relish it every time I was able to do it. At other times, when I sensed my breath starting to get away from me, I'd park myself behind a runner who was going a bit more slowly -- matching the pace until I felt strong again. Then I'd swing out from behind and pass. How glorious!

The course was well marked in kilometers, so I was able to entertain myself trying to convert my kilometer time into mile time as a way of seeing if I was on track (I am terrible at math). At the 5k mark, I was at just over 28:00, and seeing that number totally spurred me on. (It also was the first time I was definitively able to see how I was doing, since my math skills are so pathetic. When I reached 5k, at least I knew I was halfway done and could reasonably double my time to predict the finish.)

What did I not anticipate? The stinky hills in the last couple miles of the course. Yes, the paths and roads around Lake Union are super flat -- with the exception of the section that leads from the lake shore to the Eastlake Bridge. At that point, the course took us on a series of three small but extremely steep inclines that slowed me down and also totally winded me. You know how I had wickedly been enjoying being able to pass other runners? Suddenly, there they were again -- passing me by and getting up those brutal little hills easy as pie. I started feeling discouraged but kept pushing.

Directly after the final hill was the bridge. Adding insult to injury, it's on a long, slow uphill slope. More runners passed me but I kept at it. I passed the 8k marker and tried to do the math to see if there was any way I could finish in 60 minutes. It wasn't looking good but because my calculating skills are so weak, I couldn't be sure -- so I pressed on. I kept thinking of how proud I'd be to make my time. I really wanted to be able to tell SAJ that I'd done it.

A note about SAJ here: it's because of her that I was even aiming for a 60-minute time. After one of our tempo runs a couple months ago, she said in her charming way, "You know Anna, you're on track to run a 10k in an hour." I pooh-poohed her but of course it stuck in my head. And dammit if I didn't want to do it just because she put it out there. Oh SAJ, you are a trickster!

At the 9k marker, I checked my watch again. Unbelievably, I was at 52:30. Could that be? Did I actually have a full seven and a half minutes to run a single kilometer? I did some more ridiculously ignorant calculating, trying to figure what a kilometer is, compared to a mile. I guessed .7 miles -- plenty of time to make my goal. (I know now that 1k = .62 miles, thanks to the handy app on my phone. I probably could have come to that on my own, seeing that I knew 10k = 6.2 miles. But give me some credit, I was running hard and not at my best intellectually.)

While I was figuring, I was still doing my best to go fast ... but I sensed that I was slowing. I had fantasized about a sprint finish, but that wasn't to be. In all honesty, I felt pretty close to my edge. I tried to turn off my brain and just make my body move. I played counting games -- taking 30 breaths while looking no further than 10 feet in front of me, then raising my eyes to see how far I'd progressed. I counted steps. And then, thankfully, I rounded the final bend and saw the flags leading to the finish. Finally, I was able to step it up a bit -- I went as hard as I could until I crossed the chip timer line, then hit the stop button on my own watch's timer. And here is what it said:

Can I get a yahoo? I'm so thrilled. That total adds up to an average pace of 9:26! I'll yahoo myself: yahoo!

I couldn't get my watch to show the time and distance on the same screen, so here's a second picture that confirms I ran the actual distance. It's on the lower right (6.21 miles, so I even ran even a tiny bit more!). The big "53:16" number is what the watch thinks is my pace at the moment; I'm not sure why it's reading like that because I was standing still to take the picture.

What a happy, happy run. After it was over, I got back on my bike -- with some fatigue but mostly exhilaration -- and pedaled home. All that before 9:00 in the morning, pretty divine! And, as a happy P.S., I looked up the results today and I placed 8th in my age group. Eighth out of 22, but still, I'm happy. Overall, I placed 140th out of 326. I'm less excited about that, but it's still way better than I used to do.

Onward!

An interesting experiment

Well, wasn't last week a humbling one? And it was supposed to be so easy.

Why? Because SuperAthlete J and I had finally finished our 16-week weight training course, and decided to take a week off weights before starting a new one (more on this in an upcoming post). It was also a relatively slow week for running ... I didn't have anything specific I wanted to achieve and SAJ needed only to do a 4-mile run with 4 20-second sprints in the middle of it.

Wanting to mix things up a bit, I thought, "I know! I'll take a break and do classes at the gym for my workouts this week, it will be so much fun!"

Fun, yes. Surprisingly painful? Also yes. A good reminder that one kind of fitness does not automatically translate to other kinds of fitness? Bingo.

So, here's how my week shook out:

On Monday, I took a kickboxing class followed by a 25-minute core conditioning class offered by the same instructor. This man is known as one of the most hardcore trainers at my gym and he definitely lived up to his reputation. While I was able to keep up with the class and didn't have to do anything embarrassing like lay down on the floor to recover and catch my breath, it was one of the hardest workouts I've been through in a while. But did I love it? Yes, I did. Punching and kicking the big squishy cylinder was a lot of fun and I felt like I was working my body in a whole new way. Plus, I got to practice my pathetic jumprope skills -- as well as my tolerance for looking like a total fool in public. A win-win, wouldn't you say?

The core conditioning class felt much easier by comparison, although the instructor did correct my form several times -- and when I implemented his advice, the movements were significantly more difficult. My ab workouts have become a little stagnant lately, so I was really glad to get some new moves and pointers on how to do them for maximum effect. I left the gym feeling totally jelly-legged but invigorated.

Until the next day, when my inner thighs were so sore that I couldn't really cross my legs. Looking at the bright side, I chose to feel grateful that I'd had a chance to work some muscles that I'm apparently not using much in my regular routine. Little did I know that I was being a small glimpse of things to come ...

Fast forward to Wednesday. (On Tuesday, I just got on the elliptical trainer for an hour -- I couldn't find a class during the time I was able to work out.) On Wednesday, I took a rest day. I never take rest days in the middle of the week. Saturday is my rest day and I love it like that. But I was so sore from Monday's kickboxing that I couldn't face the idea of exercise. I actually got in my car, drove to the gym, then drove back home without working out. I've never done that before. But things got even worse as the week progressed.

On Thursday, I ran with SAJ despite still feeling very creaky from kickboxing. (Yes, a full three days later. Shows you how unprepared I was for the intensity of that class.) Later on, I took a short abs class, followed by an "NRG Bar" session. "NRG Bar" is like a hybrid of weights and step aerobics. There's lots of high-rep/low-weight stuff and jumping around/over the big plastic step. The instructor was super nice, encouraging and hugely entertaining to watch, so I had a great time. But, just like before, I came into the class full of cocky attitude. I just finished 16 weeks of weight training at ever-escalating levels of difficulty!, I said to my cocky self. This will be easy as pie!

Wrong. Because I stubbornly refused to swap the heavier weights I'd brashly selected at the start of class for something more light and manageable, I had to stop and take a few breathing breaks here and there. I also occasionally went at half-time while everyone else was full steam ahead. This class was definitely another dose of "my kind of fitness doesn't translate to all kinds of fitness" reality -- but it was nothing compared to what Friday had in store for me ...

Zumba class. Here's how cocky I was about this one: I was going to take a 5-mile run before the class even started because I was so sure it would be a walk in the park and I didn't want to feel like I hadn't worked out that day. Oh my lord, how wrong can one woman be? Zumba kicked my ass. Kicked it, then stomped on it, then walked away laughing as a matter of fact.

What is Zumba, you ask? Here's what the official Zumba® website has to say:

The Zumba® program fuses hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy-to-follow moves to create a one-of-a-kind fitness program that will blow you away.

Sounds relatively mellow, wouldn't you say? (Here's a link if you want to look into it further: http://www.zumba.com/us/) My impression of the class was reinforced by the people I'd seen taking it ... mostly middle-aged or older women, not too fit, generally a bit plump. You know, Jazzercise ladies. (I know I'm being horribly judgmental right now.) The final nail in the coffin of my complete misunderstanding of the class? The fact that a friend of mine, who admittedly hates to exercise and drags herself to the gym once or at best twice per week where she doesn't appear to ever break a sweat, had taken it and pronounced it "hard." Not "insanely hard" or "you will want to pass out because you're working so hard, hard" -- just "hard." Well, I snidely told myself, if that's how she feels about it, I will be totally fine. In fact, I'd better take a run before class just to make sure I get a good workout.

HA HA HA HA HA, the joke was so on me. You know that part in the preceding paragraph where I mentioned passing out? I literally felt like that. I'd come into the class with my primary worry being about not looking stupid while attempting the dance moves -- coordination is not my strong point -- and ended with it being about staying conscious until the class was over. In short, it was a great, GREAT, hard workout, awesome for the core and legs, and I gained a whole new respect for it, along with the Jazzercise ladies who take it. (A side note: not only did my exercise-hating friend join me for the class -- and come away much less winded than me -- we were joined by our two daughters, who suffered through the majority of the class, dying of teenage embarrassment, before slinking away to sit on the couch until it was over.)

Was I glad I didn't take a run before the class? Yes I was.

Even after my humiliation at the hands of Zumba, my week was not over. I still had one final humbling experience to suffer through -- and it wasn't even a class.

Saturday was a day that kind of slipped away from me, but in the best way. My youngest daughter and I spent the morning and afternoon biking around our neighborhood, stopping here and there and enjoying ourselves in the sunshine. When we got back home, I didn't have enough time for a trip to the gym -- but I still wanted to work out. My sweet and helpful husband suggested that I do walking lunges around our block and I thought, That's a great idea!

Can you see where this is going?

Our "block" is actually a few blocks crammed into one: at one end is 70th Street, and at the other is 73rd. So it's a long stretch from end to end. (I'm laying the groundwork to make excuses here.) I set out from our house, lunging away. And I did make it to the end of the block. But there was ABSOLUTELY NO WAY for me to lunge any further. My legs felt like jello. So, dipping into my past bootcamp class experiences, I did sideways gallops along the short end of the block. When I got to the corner, I did walking squats up the other long side. Then more sideways gallops to the third corner -- and walking lunges back to our house, which I barely managed to squeak out.

I should have known how much trouble I was in when I went up our front steps. I honestly wasn't sure if my legs would support me, that's how loose and trembly they were. But I was in a hurry and didn't take in the dire portent of what my gams were telling me. I was on my feet a lot that evening and they continued to feel weak. They were a little sore the next day when I treated myself to a rest day (my second for the week!) because it was Mother's Day. Plus, in the back of my mind, I wasn't sure how well I'd do on a workout.

And then came Monday. I can honestly say my legs have never been more sore in my life. "Sore" isn't even the word to describe what I felt, in fact. I was in literal pain every time I had to move around on my feet. Sitting down, getting up and going down stairs were the worst. I had to shift the majority of my weight to my arms to be able to do it, so stuff like going to the bathroom was a lot of fun. I felt like such an old lady, I can't even tell you.

I forced myself to work out, thinking it might loosen my legs up. Along with the first day of my and SAJ's new weight training program, I ran three miles on the treadmill and went back for a second dose of the kickboxing/core conditioning class. (I was feeling guilty about my two rest days the week before.) Exercising did help -- while I was doing it and for 5 or so minutes after. Then it was right back to full-on pain. I couldn't wait for the day to end so I could look forward to feeling better the next day but Tuesday wasn't much of an improvement. On Wednesday, I was able to get down stairs without using a hand rail ... but I still had to lead with my right leg every time. Thursday was the first day I could walk down the stairs using both legs like a normal person -- but I still looked gimpy. Today is Friday. Yes, just about a week later. And it is the first day that my legs have felt anything close to normal. Being able to sit on the toilet without gripping the bowl for support on the way down feels like a pretty giant achievement. I've continued to exercise every day -- both to stay on schedule and because I've been hoping it would help move the soreness out of my body -- but it's been hard, to say the least.

And that is the end of my long tale of humbling woe and exercise experimentation. At least it was illuminating for me -- and a good reminder that mixing it up is a good thing, but one that I should be careful with. Or at least not quite so cocky.

So much for an easy week between programs, huh?

Bloomsday in Spokane

My best friend moved to Spokane five years ago and ever since, she's encouraged me to come over and run the Bloomsday 12k. (Really, she's looking for a reason that will entice me to spend the weekend with her -- not that I need any enticing because her fine company is all the reason I will ever need to make the 275-mile road trip to her house.)

This year, finally, I agreed to do it. The timing seemed perfect: I've been working on my pace over shorter distances and Bloomsday is a 12k. Plus, as I said, I'm always happy to visit my wonderful friend.

However, I made a few mistakes in planning for this run.

First, I got the distance wrong. OK, that's really embarrassing -- but true nevertheless. I've got a metric conversion app on my phone and I used it to see what 12k translates to in miles: according to the app, it was 6.48. Easy enough. So, for the past several weeks, I've been doing long runs of 6 or 7 miles to prepare for the 12k. My aim? To run the distance in 60 minutes or a bit less.

Then, just a few days before we were to set out for Spokane, I got on the Bloomsday website. There, right in the masthead, was a bullet point: "12k (7.46 miles)." That can't be!, I thought. I went to a metric converter website and typed in 12k ... 7.46 miles. With a growing sense of dismay, I went to my phone app and typed in 12k once more. (I was starting to think that something was wrong with my app -- and building up a big head of steam, all ready to make a big stink about this crappy (free) app.)

Uh oh. I was right about 12k converting to 6.48 ... nautical miles. If I scrolled up a bit higher, I could plainly see that the kilometers translated to 7.46 regular miles. Boo! So much for being able to run the whole thing in an hour. I quickly adjusted my goal to 70 minutes. Not as exciting as "an hour," but I'd still be proud if I was able to do it.

I clicked back over to the Bloomsday site and, rather belatedly, looked at the elevation profile. My heart sank further. Why did I not research earlier and find out that it's a fairly hilly course -- with a big fat "Doomsday Hill" in the middle -- and that it starts about 1,500 feet above sea level? That was my second mistake. I suddenly felt much less confident about being able to run the distance in 70 minutes and mentally adjusted my goal to 75. Sigh.

Third mistake: I completely neglected to take into consideration the massive numbers of people who participate in this race. This year, there were over 49,000. I don't know if I've ever participated in a run of that scale.

Here's a picture I took on the morning of the run, while waiting for my wave to get the go-ahead to cross the start line:

Please bear in mind that this picture was taken at least 45 minutes after the run had "officially" started -- not including the elite wave of pro runners that was the first to go out. There were even more people stacked up behind me. So yes, a really giant run.

And one, apparently, that is filled with walkers who aren't that interested in being part of the last wave. You know, the one that's for walkers. When it was finally time to cross the start and start running, I found it almost impossible. Walkers everywhere. And where there weren't walkers, there were other people like me, futilely trying to run and being reduced to a jog at best -- or a jog in place at worst.

Eager to get rolling, I started dodging and weaving -- figuring if I couldn't run straight ahead, perhaps I could move forward by running side to side. I was still going so slowly that I started mentally planning to take a run later in the day so I could actually get some exercise.

After half a mile or so, I noticed a current of runners to my left and joined it. And by "current," I mean a row of 2 or 3 runners at the dangling edge of a giant river of walkers at least 50 people wide. I still needed to maneuver around frequent clumps of walkers, but at least I was finally able to start running at something approximating my usual pace. Some of the time, anyway. Even my tiny stream of runners would sometimes come to a halt when the course narrowed. Then I'd be back to jogging in place. I started mentally upping the time I'd hoped to achieve, wondering if it would be possible for me to finish the course in 90 minutes, let alone 75.

Finally, between miles 2 and 3, a readerboard sign at the side of the road: RUNNERS ON LEFT, WALKERS ON RIGHT. Wow, I thought, wouldn't it have been nice to have a sign like that at the very beginning of the course? Or information about it in the event handout? Perhaps it's assumed that people already know. And obviously, some people did. Others didn't, and the sign helped move more of the walkers over to the right. But not all of them. I was still doing a lot of zig-zagging. On one short and steep uphill, I had to move around a big crew of Army soldiers in full gear, with giant backpacks, walking squarely up the left side of the course. I'm all for supporting our troops, but geez Louise.

Happily, after mile 4 or so, the course opened up and slowdowns were much more rare. I finally felt like I was getting a good workout and even made myself slow down here and there to catch my breath. I felt a decent amount of anxiety about the famed "Doomsday Hill" -- .7 miles at a pretty steep incline -- and was looking forward to putting it behind me. But all those runs in my own hilly neighborhood must have been great preparation because it really wasn't that bad. I mean, I had to work hard -- but I never felt like I needed to stop and walk or anything.

The last couple miles of the run went really well. The course was flat, there was room to move, and I was in a part of the city I'd never been to before so there was a lot to look at. I checked the distance on my watch against the posted distance and was surprised to see that I'd run .3 miles more than what the mile marker showed ... must have been all the weaving around.

Then, suddenly, the course took a right turn to head downhill to the finish, about a quarter of a mile away. I sprinted down and crossed it with no idea of my time (I'd forgotten to start my timer at the beginning of the run). Even if I hadn't been able to run the event for time, I at least felt like I'd gotten in a good workout on a beautiful morning.

And we did get so lucky with the weather. It was raining and cold the day before Bloomsday, and the day after was so freakishly windy that it blew up a dust storm. Here's a photo from our drive home:

Yikes. There's no way I could have gone running in that. Or anyone else, I'd imagine. The happy ending to the story? Even with all the crazy slowdowns and extra distance from scooting around walkers, I ended up with a time of 77 minutes -- just 2 over my goal. Not bad!

Pee S. (a running milestone)

Here's something I left out of that last triumphant post:

I hit another running milestone during that 3-mile tempo run, aside from setting a PR.

I peed my pants at the end.

Not just a trickle. I full-on peed my pants.

Nothing approaching that has ever happened to me before, even after birthing two kids. I'm still not sure why it happened, but I'm guessing it was because I was pushing myself so hard and stopped so abruptly -- when I slowed to a walk, everything let go (including my bladder).

I was aware during the third mile that I needed to pee but it didn't feel like an emergency or anything. It was very peripheral in my thoughts -- probably because I was doing everything I could just to keep moving quickly without dying.

When I saw the magic "3.00" appear on my GPS-enabled watch, I immediately slowed to a walk. And that's when the torrent began. Actually, it wasn't a torrent at first; I'd say it was a stream. Realizing what was going on, I started jogging again, thinking that would halt the flow. No dice. Then I bent over double and kegel-ed for all my might. If anything, that made it worse.

At that point, there was nothing left to do but let it go. There, in the parking lot outside Stone Gardens in my own cozy neighborhood, I peed like a racehorse. SuperAthlete J, who was just a bit behind me, came up to see me laughing and walking around in circles. She asked what was going on, and I proudly announced that I'd just taken a whiz in my sweats.

I stopped laughing soon enough when I remembered that our workout wasn't over -- we were scheduled to jog back to the gym and lift weights together. I started pissing and moaning, ha ha, about how I was going to miss out on our weight session because I didn't have any spare clothes with me and I'd have to go home and change.

Now here's something that will make anyone who belongs to my gym shudder -- and anyone who doesn't breathe a sigh of relief: SAJ simply said, "Oh come on and do weights. You've got at least an hour before you start stinking." When I pointed out the big wet spot on my (thankfully black) sweats, she said, "You're sweaty up top; no one will guess that's pee down below." It's true: my tank top had a big fat sweat stain down the middle from my quick 3 miler. And fortunately, my sweats are quite absorbent -- I'd never put them to a test like that before! -- and they did an admirable job of catching my pee. None of it ran down my legs and into my socks, so I began to seriously consider SAJ's idea.

Such was my desire to lift weights with SAJ that I followed her advice and went to the gym in my stinky britches. (Or supposedly not stinky yet, according to SAJ.) Not only did I do a complete weight session with her -- sitting on a towel whenever sitting was required, thank you very much -- I also wrapped up with half an hour on an elliptical trainer. I will say that I thought I was getting a little smelly toward the end -- but really, not until the last 10 minutes or so. And happily, my sweet husband happened to be at the gym at the same time so he could confirm my lack of stench.

And that is the postscript (or Pee S.) to my story.