18K LSD this morning. I set out just before 9:00 a.m., which was actually too late. It was already hot--around 20 degrees Celsius. I put on sunscreen, which ran into my eyes several times, causing (literally) BLINDING pain. However, my back got burned and the outline of my tank top is seared into my skin. Must look into sunscreen spray or find someone to rub lotion on my back. (The second option sounds more intriguing.)
I don't usually do long runs on Saturdays--I figured since I have a four-day weekend, I should get at least one run out of the way so I don't feel guilty when I see everyone else out. And really, Vancouver is a city where it seems that everybody is out running at all hours of the day. I asked a friend visiting from Toronto whether it's just Vancouver, and she said it definitely feels like people are a lot more hardcore about it here.
This got me thinking during today's run about competition. Unconsciously, I think every runner competes, even in a non-race situation. You pass someone and feel a small sense of triumph. You are passed and pick up the pace. Maybe you size up runners approaching in the opposite direction, sizing up their gear (Garmin? Fuel Belt? Tech shirt? Nice shoes?) as a measure of how devoted they are to the sport.
I try to stay focused on my own training goals, but sometimes my brain needs something more immediate, and so I start picking people off. Or if I'm passed, sometimes I'll start internally defending myself: "I'm doing a LSD run! I ran a half-marathon last weekend!" Pretty neurotic, but it's one way to pass the time.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Scotiabank Half-Marathon
I'm not what you would call a cocky individual. Self-doubt and self-deprecation are a part of my day-to-day life.
However, when it comes to running, I can get a little cocky. I'm not super fast, but I'm tough and willing to push myself even when it might be better to back off. This is how I arrived at the Scotiabank Half-Marathon confident that it would be a walk (well, a run/walk) in the park (well, several parks). I'd run a half already, I had net downhill working in my favour, and I had my Garmin to keep me on pace. I regularly do runs (albeit LSD runs) of 26 km+. Easy.
Well, no, not quite. But let's back-track a bit.
I'm pleased to say I have pre-race prep down to a science. Last night I set out everything I'd need to make breakfast. I pre-measured the oatmeal and set out all the dishes and utensils I'd need. I filled all my water bottles, packed my bag, laid out three possible outfits for different weather conditions. I called to reserve a cab. I made it to bed by 9:30 p.m. (not having slept well the previous week helped, in a way), and was up at 4:30 a.m.
A bit of a digression here: I understand that it's difficult for race organizers to coordinate road closures. But a 7:00 a.m. race start is tricky for someone without a car, as buses to UBC don't run early enough on Sundays to allow for one to make it to the starting line with enough time to psych oneself up mentally, stretch, psych oneself out mentally, pee, check bags, and psych oneself up again. And so it came to pass that I spent $25 + tip on cab fare--a hidden cost of racing.
The first 3 km were uneventful. I was feeling pretty good and my muscles were nice and warm. The elites were already on the way back from the out-and-back. It was neat to actually see them, for once, and observe how they kept turning around to check their positioning.
Kilometres 4 and 5 were slightly more painful because they were uphill and I'd decided to start pushing myself harder, as I was aiming for a finishing time of 2:05. My heart rate was near 180, which I can't sustain for long. I backed off a bit and settled into a steady pace, but I was still painfully aware of every stride and the effort involved.
The large downhill section was fun. I was flying, having taken a one-minute walking break, and was going around 4:20/km. My heart rate monitor still read 178, but I didn't feel like I was overexerting myself, so I viewed it as an opportunity to make up as much time as possible.
A woman pushing her son in a wheelchair flew by. Everyone cheered.
I got frustrated with the poorly paved roadways at Jericho Beach; running over potholes and cracks seems to require more energy expenditure. Then there was some uphill, but mostly, the course was flat, straight and dull. A boring residential street. Past Trevor Linden's house (I think) on the Point Grey Road stretch I'd done so many times in my first clinic. I was sort of over it all at this point, but buoyed by the volunteers who took it upon themselves to shout out each racer's name (on our bibs) as we passed.
Finally, the Burrard Street Bridge. I run this all the time in training and in the Sun Run, and I'd never really understood why people complained about it. It doesn't seem particularly steep...that is, when you haven't already run 18 km. My legs were heavy and it took everything I had to keep picking them up. I'd already taken gel twice, but I was irreparably fatigued. I took an early walk break to prevent myself from walking the entire uphill portion of the bridge. I was still tempted to do it, but realized running this section of the race was, for me, more of an accomplishment than getting a faster overall time, and I made it to the crest--slowly.
Once I was over the bridge, I heard a volunteer promise, "You're almost there! Only 2 km more! And the rest is downhill!", and sped up. At most, I was 12 minutes away from finishing. I thought of it as a 12-minute tempo run and said my mantra ("Be mentally tough") under my breath a few times.
Of course, when you expect to be almost done, the remaining distance seems endless: the running equivalent of the watched-pot effect. I was still enthusiastic, but badly wanted it to be over. I thought a friend of mine who lives in the West End, and imagined how awesome it would be to suddenly hear him call my name and see him on the sidelines. I knew he wouldn't be there, for logistical reasons, but just the thought that he might be watching was enough to keep me going. A strange mental tactic, but one I may use again.
Finally, FINALLY, I hit the mat. I was going at a clip and passing people, but not sprinting all out like I usually do at the end of a race. I viewed this as a sign I'd given the entire race my all. Though there were times I probably could have sped up, I didn't feel as though I'd held back, as I had at some points in the Fall Classic.
My chip time was 2:07:18, two minutes off my goal time of 2:05, but three minutes faster than the Fall Classic, and that was good enough for me, considering I hadn't been consistent with my training over the last couple of months. This taught me I definitely need to be more disciplined in my training for the Royal Victoria Marathon (i.e., run more than 2-3 times a week).
I like the finisher medal (I'm wearing it right now), but I'm not sure why it depicts the Lions Gate Bridge when we didn't go anywhere near it. It looks impressive, I guess.
I stood near the finish line for a bit and watched racers come in, which always gets me feeling all emotionally charged, especially when I see someone who looks especially determined or surprised at his or her accomplishment. And I saw a couple of women from my old Running Room clinic, and we chatted for awhile. Having trained alone and raced alone, it was nice to reconnect with the running community.
I grabbed three cinnamon-raisin mini bagels, a cup of Gatorade, and for the first time ever, a space blanket. I really dislike being conspicuous, as one is when wearing a shiny foil cape emblazoned with a corporate logo, but I dislike being cold even more. I had a bit of a walk and a bus ride home, and I kept it on the whole time, eliciting a lot of stares. I tried to ensure my finisher medal was prominently displayed so I didn't look like a self-imagined superhero.
Waiting for the bus at Main & Keefer (in Chinatown), I felt especially self-conscious among the group of older, shorter Chinese men and women doing their Sunday grocery shopping. A few of them were looking at me quizzically. Finally, one gentleman came up and said, "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Do those [space blankets] really work? I've seen them on TV and I always wonder."
"They do! But you have to be relatively warm to begin with, I think."
"Me, I prefer these." He pulled out a pair of gloves and smiled. "Are you a runner?"
"Yes, I just finished a race."
"Good for you. Congratulations."
That nice little exchange was the topper to a good race. Vancouver is a good city in which to be a runner.
However, when it comes to running, I can get a little cocky. I'm not super fast, but I'm tough and willing to push myself even when it might be better to back off. This is how I arrived at the Scotiabank Half-Marathon confident that it would be a walk (well, a run/walk) in the park (well, several parks). I'd run a half already, I had net downhill working in my favour, and I had my Garmin to keep me on pace. I regularly do runs (albeit LSD runs) of 26 km+. Easy.
Well, no, not quite. But let's back-track a bit.
I'm pleased to say I have pre-race prep down to a science. Last night I set out everything I'd need to make breakfast. I pre-measured the oatmeal and set out all the dishes and utensils I'd need. I filled all my water bottles, packed my bag, laid out three possible outfits for different weather conditions. I called to reserve a cab. I made it to bed by 9:30 p.m. (not having slept well the previous week helped, in a way), and was up at 4:30 a.m.
A bit of a digression here: I understand that it's difficult for race organizers to coordinate road closures. But a 7:00 a.m. race start is tricky for someone without a car, as buses to UBC don't run early enough on Sundays to allow for one to make it to the starting line with enough time to psych oneself up mentally, stretch, psych oneself out mentally, pee, check bags, and psych oneself up again. And so it came to pass that I spent $25 + tip on cab fare--a hidden cost of racing.
The first 3 km were uneventful. I was feeling pretty good and my muscles were nice and warm. The elites were already on the way back from the out-and-back. It was neat to actually see them, for once, and observe how they kept turning around to check their positioning.
Kilometres 4 and 5 were slightly more painful because they were uphill and I'd decided to start pushing myself harder, as I was aiming for a finishing time of 2:05. My heart rate was near 180, which I can't sustain for long. I backed off a bit and settled into a steady pace, but I was still painfully aware of every stride and the effort involved.
The large downhill section was fun. I was flying, having taken a one-minute walking break, and was going around 4:20/km. My heart rate monitor still read 178, but I didn't feel like I was overexerting myself, so I viewed it as an opportunity to make up as much time as possible.
A woman pushing her son in a wheelchair flew by. Everyone cheered.
I got frustrated with the poorly paved roadways at Jericho Beach; running over potholes and cracks seems to require more energy expenditure. Then there was some uphill, but mostly, the course was flat, straight and dull. A boring residential street. Past Trevor Linden's house (I think) on the Point Grey Road stretch I'd done so many times in my first clinic. I was sort of over it all at this point, but buoyed by the volunteers who took it upon themselves to shout out each racer's name (on our bibs) as we passed.
Finally, the Burrard Street Bridge. I run this all the time in training and in the Sun Run, and I'd never really understood why people complained about it. It doesn't seem particularly steep...that is, when you haven't already run 18 km. My legs were heavy and it took everything I had to keep picking them up. I'd already taken gel twice, but I was irreparably fatigued. I took an early walk break to prevent myself from walking the entire uphill portion of the bridge. I was still tempted to do it, but realized running this section of the race was, for me, more of an accomplishment than getting a faster overall time, and I made it to the crest--slowly.
Once I was over the bridge, I heard a volunteer promise, "You're almost there! Only 2 km more! And the rest is downhill!", and sped up. At most, I was 12 minutes away from finishing. I thought of it as a 12-minute tempo run and said my mantra ("Be mentally tough") under my breath a few times.
Of course, when you expect to be almost done, the remaining distance seems endless: the running equivalent of the watched-pot effect. I was still enthusiastic, but badly wanted it to be over. I thought a friend of mine who lives in the West End, and imagined how awesome it would be to suddenly hear him call my name and see him on the sidelines. I knew he wouldn't be there, for logistical reasons, but just the thought that he might be watching was enough to keep me going. A strange mental tactic, but one I may use again.
Finally, FINALLY, I hit the mat. I was going at a clip and passing people, but not sprinting all out like I usually do at the end of a race. I viewed this as a sign I'd given the entire race my all. Though there were times I probably could have sped up, I didn't feel as though I'd held back, as I had at some points in the Fall Classic.
My chip time was 2:07:18, two minutes off my goal time of 2:05, but three minutes faster than the Fall Classic, and that was good enough for me, considering I hadn't been consistent with my training over the last couple of months. This taught me I definitely need to be more disciplined in my training for the Royal Victoria Marathon (i.e., run more than 2-3 times a week).
I like the finisher medal (I'm wearing it right now), but I'm not sure why it depicts the Lions Gate Bridge when we didn't go anywhere near it. It looks impressive, I guess.
I stood near the finish line for a bit and watched racers come in, which always gets me feeling all emotionally charged, especially when I see someone who looks especially determined or surprised at his or her accomplishment. And I saw a couple of women from my old Running Room clinic, and we chatted for awhile. Having trained alone and raced alone, it was nice to reconnect with the running community.
I grabbed three cinnamon-raisin mini bagels, a cup of Gatorade, and for the first time ever, a space blanket. I really dislike being conspicuous, as one is when wearing a shiny foil cape emblazoned with a corporate logo, but I dislike being cold even more. I had a bit of a walk and a bus ride home, and I kept it on the whole time, eliciting a lot of stares. I tried to ensure my finisher medal was prominently displayed so I didn't look like a self-imagined superhero.
Waiting for the bus at Main & Keefer (in Chinatown), I felt especially self-conscious among the group of older, shorter Chinese men and women doing their Sunday grocery shopping. A few of them were looking at me quizzically. Finally, one gentleman came up and said, "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Do those [space blankets] really work? I've seen them on TV and I always wonder."
"They do! But you have to be relatively warm to begin with, I think."
"Me, I prefer these." He pulled out a pair of gloves and smiled. "Are you a runner?"
"Yes, I just finished a race."
"Good for you. Congratulations."
That nice little exchange was the topper to a good race. Vancouver is a good city in which to be a runner.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
The bitch is back
23 K LSD today in 2:30, after a two-week long-run hiatus. I'm pretty pleased with that, because it means I still have hope of a 2:00-2:05 finish at the Scotiabank Half-Marathon in two weeks. But I'm not going to be hard on myself if I don't make that goal, because the last month has been hellish. Training fell by the wayside, and that's how life goes.
I did my usual route around the Seawall in reverse, and rather than running the same portion between the Cambie Street Bridge and the Second Beach Pool twice, I went down West Georgia through the downtown core. I don't normally run there (and was reminded why when I had to stop for lights at nearly every corner), but I got to see the Jeff Ladouceur sculpture intertwining the pillars of the Vancouver Art Gallery, and the yellow-and-blue-striped tents Cirque du Soleil set up for the Corteo production.
Running the route in reverse made it feel like a completely different route. I had only a vague concept of where I was in relation to my usual route, except for a few unmistakable landmarks (the Lions Gate bridge). I thought my plans would be foiled at some point by the goings-on at the Vancouver Triathlon World Championships, but surprisingly, I only had to maneuver around a crowd for a minute or so around English Bay.
Winding my way around False Creek, I saw a dragon boat race about to start. There was a judge in a motorboat who was ensuring the boats were correctly aligned at the starting lined. She had a bullhorn and for about ten minutes, all you could hear was, "BOAT FIVE, ONE PADDLE FORWARD. THANK YOU. BOAT TWO, HOLD. THANK YOU. BOAT SIX, ONE PADDLE FORWARD. THANK YOU."
Finally, when they were all set up, the horn sounded and they all started shouting and paddling. Pretty exciting to watch. However, Boat Seven appeared to be having trouble, and nearly crashed into Boat Six. So they restarted the race, which involved ten minutes of turning around to get back to their original positions (all the while accompanied by "BOAT SEVEN, STOP PADDLING BACKWARDS. STOP, NOW. NOW. WAIT FOR BOAT FIVE. TURN.") It was pretty painstaking. I can't imagine putting all my energy into that for a minute or two and then having to start over. I might have been convinced to steer the boat directly into Boat Seven, just for that. I guess that's what it's like when Olympic sprinters have a faulty start, though the difference between me and Olympic sprinters (the only difference) is that they probably adopt a more professional attitude about it.
I did my usual route around the Seawall in reverse, and rather than running the same portion between the Cambie Street Bridge and the Second Beach Pool twice, I went down West Georgia through the downtown core. I don't normally run there (and was reminded why when I had to stop for lights at nearly every corner), but I got to see the Jeff Ladouceur sculpture intertwining the pillars of the Vancouver Art Gallery, and the yellow-and-blue-striped tents Cirque du Soleil set up for the Corteo production.
Running the route in reverse made it feel like a completely different route. I had only a vague concept of where I was in relation to my usual route, except for a few unmistakable landmarks (the Lions Gate bridge). I thought my plans would be foiled at some point by the goings-on at the Vancouver Triathlon World Championships, but surprisingly, I only had to maneuver around a crowd for a minute or so around English Bay.
Winding my way around False Creek, I saw a dragon boat race about to start. There was a judge in a motorboat who was ensuring the boats were correctly aligned at the starting lined. She had a bullhorn and for about ten minutes, all you could hear was, "BOAT FIVE, ONE PADDLE FORWARD. THANK YOU. BOAT TWO, HOLD. THANK YOU. BOAT SIX, ONE PADDLE FORWARD. THANK YOU."
Finally, when they were all set up, the horn sounded and they all started shouting and paddling. Pretty exciting to watch. However, Boat Seven appeared to be having trouble, and nearly crashed into Boat Six. So they restarted the race, which involved ten minutes of turning around to get back to their original positions (all the while accompanied by "BOAT SEVEN, STOP PADDLING BACKWARDS. STOP, NOW. NOW. WAIT FOR BOAT FIVE. TURN.") It was pretty painstaking. I can't imagine putting all my energy into that for a minute or two and then having to start over. I might have been convinced to steer the boat directly into Boat Seven, just for that. I guess that's what it's like when Olympic sprinters have a faulty start, though the difference between me and Olympic sprinters (the only difference) is that they probably adopt a more professional attitude about it.
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