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.

Fall Classic

The half-marathon went really, really well. I ended up beating my goal time of 2:15 (chip time: 2:10:34.3), which is significant because 2:15 was my "best case scenario" goal, with my main goal being just to finish.

I'm not sure I would have finished without S., a woman from my clinic. S. needs a bit of an aside here. She organized a pasta feed the other night entitled "The LBD Dinner," because "Little Black Dress" was her mantra for our long slow runs, since those keep us in the fat-burning zone and there was a LBD at the Gap she had her eye on. She's one of those force-of-nature types who just makes everything more fun.

She and I trained in the same pace group but we all decided not to make any commitments about running the race together so that no one would feel held back or pressured to keep up. But S. and I determined about 2K into the race that we were pretty much in sync, and when I accidentally reset my stopwatch around the 5K mark, I was glad to have her to keep me on schedule.

The course was a double loop and relatively flat, with one low-grade but deceptively difficult hill that I didn't realize was a hill until it was almost over and I couldn't figure out why I was breathing so hard. I commented to S. that I felt like I was moving backward. It was a really weird sensation; I felt like we had slowed down to the point where walking would have been faster. But we made it through the first 10K loop ahead of schedule and in relatively good spirits.

The second loop was a little demoralizing, having to bypass the same scenery and see many of the elite racers already headed back, but there was the advantage of knowing what to expect and how much farther it was going to feel. For the most part I felt strong, but there were a few times when I just really, really wanted to stop. I could imagine the instant relief I would feel and it was so tempting.

It was during these moments that I really had to reflect on why I was doing this in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I was glad to have S. with me, even though we were working to hard to say much. Every so often she would tell me to pass people and I did it without question, although I commented later on the likelihood of her having been a drill instructor in a past life.

I sprinted the last few hundred metres, spurred on by an African drumming performance. I crossed the finish line at quite a clip, which is unusual for me because I tend to just stop the second I hit the mat. I felt incredibly light-headed the second I stopped, unlike anything I'd ever experienced while running. S. crossed a few seconds later and we hugged. Someone put a finisher medal over my head. My clinic instructor finished a few minutes later and we set up to cheer the rest of the group in.

It was much more emotional for me to see all of them cross than it was for me to do it myself--that was one of the most surprising parts of the whole experience for me. I feel invested in their success and I know from talking to them what it means to them personally to have done this. There was one woman who had been struggling with serious injuries over the past few weeks and she had to stop halfway through the race today. She was there waiting for us at the finish line, but she was crying openly. It was really hard to see that. No one wanted her to be hard on herself, but you just can't convince someone of that, especially not a runner. I've been there.

I scheduled the day off of work tomorrow so I may go get a massage, get my hair cut, or just sit on my ass because I can't move. But I'm already thinking about when I can start running again and which race to train for next.

Training update

Exactly one month until the half-marathon. 18K clinic run on Sunday. Got soaked through in a torrential downpour last night that lasted only for the duration of our speedwork. Toweled off and felt surprisingly entitled to accompany the group for beer and greasy bar food after. Still trying to get used to the consistency of gels, which I liken to swallowing half a tube of chocolate-flavoured toothpaste. Someone at work told me the other day that I "look like a runner," which doesn't really mean anything, but was sort of cool nonetheless.

Brave new world

I signed up for my first half-marathon today. I wasn't sure about it for awhile, but then I learned that the Running Room a block away from my office is holding a half-marathon clinic that starts 20 minutes after I get off work and is designed specifically for this race. So I pretty much had to sign up for that, too.I was going to train alone, like I have in the past, but I'm sure I could use some pointers and the motivation. Plus, there are absolutely no hills where I live but a very steep one near work/the Running Room. I'm a little scared that I won't be able to keep up with even the slowest pace group and that I'll get discouraged by that but I think I can do it. I expect I will form some sort of bond with the other clinic members, considering the clinic runs from the beginning of August until the beginning of November (the race is on November 18 and it will be COLD and what am I thinking?).