Tired legs and sleepless eyes ran the second half of the SBIM course on Thursday morning.  Oh, they belonged to me.  I came too.  I was delightfully surprised at how “short” the half marathon felt.  The course just zipped along.  Maybe quite not zippieed-do-dah zip, after all the legs are not yet happily ever after, but none the less miles seemed to evaporate behind me.  Before I knew it legs were turning over down shoreline. 

Confession of the right and left: those gals with an ankle each are still mad at me.  What gives gals?  Didn’t you each get a new shoe?  Oh, and a new sock a piece?  It was hard to run on the course and not visualize the race.  It is gonna be a fun one, so rest up leggies!

Right leg, “Do you believe this woman?”

Left leg, “I know!  She keeps promising this mythical rest stuff.  Rest what?  In peace?!  She is gonna kill us!”

Right leg, “I think we get the day off today.  Hey, hey, Head!  Do we get today off?”

Head, “Yeah, yeah, the day is off.”

Left leg, “Think we can negotiate for two?”

Right leg, “She’d never go for it.  I mean I’ve known her for 32 years.”

Don’t knock the socks until you try them.  Baby it is every so slightly chilly outside and those little arms of mine are not going to warm themselves.  Why pay big bucks for fancy smancy brand name arm warmers when you can hand craft your own unique set like mine?

Ah, So Cozy!

The best part is that when you buy a five pack of knee high socks, you actually get five fabulous arm toasters.  Not sold yet?  Well think of the versatility!  Wipe away sweat and snot.  Stick Gu packs in there.  Strip your arm and wear it as a scarf!  Tie it on your head 70’s style for fro control or 80’s style to maintain the bangs.  Stick it in the back of your shorts and create a colorful tail, see who chases it.  Too far?

But here is the real beauty of it all.  Wear them race day morning and when you heat up toss them off at a water station.  Bye-bye bulk, hello goose-bumpless arms.

For a limited time only, I will hand craft these bad girls for you for the low cost of $4.99.  That’s right, just $4.99.  Buy a right arm toaster and get a left arm toaster absolutely free!  So you receive not one, but two arm toasters all for the low cost of $4.99!  Don’t delay, call today 1-800-arm-tost.  That’s 1-800-ARM-TOST.

*Naturally that is not a real number, nor is this a real ad.  I don’t know who you will reach if you call the above number.  It will not be our CEO.

ARM TOASTER CEO

Fine Hand Craftmanship

I have been running 75 to 85 miles a week since early September and this is another big mileage week.  I am now three weeks away from the Santa Barbara International Marathon.  I have been having a pretty darn good time getting myself to the starting line, but the road has been bumpy the last month. 

My hit and run with the dog that knocked my ribs out of place and rotated three vertebrae was a scooby snack.  I still cannot rotate without pain, but at least the jarring has disappeared while running.  All that pain created a nasty whirlwind of insomnia that went on for over ten days.  That brought about a rain of tears and ever lasting fumes of icy hot in the house.  Advil stock is probably doing fairly well.

There was plantar pain and hip pain and Rusty’s house of pain to treat them both.  I gave up sugar and 87% of caffeine and got headaches.  I gave up dairy and got soy.  I drink vitamins that taste like licking a lead pipe and now some that taste like fruit loop poop.  I have bought my-husband-does-not-want-to-know numbers of running shoes.  I am sure I have provided Levi with a few college textbooks by now.  I have every color of sports bra and I stay in them most days until 6pm.  Then I switch to pj’s.  I cut my hair.  OK that has nothing to do with running.

Mentally, I have been pretty stable (not up for debate!) throughout this process.  Eye on the prize.  Love the experience.  Love to run, love to run, yes, yes, another mile please!  But this, this tiny little blip of a nucance just brought the shoulders drooping and the tired eyes crinkling.  My toe.  It hurts.

The Prep

The Prick

Sniff-sniff.  I want, I want, I want a cookie, dipped in chocolate frosting.  Then I want to sandwich it with cookie dough ice cream and roll it in chocolate chips.  I want a stack of DVD’s and no less than three fluffy feather pillows in flannel pillow cases.  I want slippers and granny panties.

Do I have SAD?  Seasonal affective disorder?  I mean, it makes sense. The sun has been gone for hours!

Mr. Brizz brought this little website to my attention:  www.athlinks.com You can punch in your name and many of the races you have completed EVER pop up in neat little letters followed by tidy numbers.  I stuck my name in there, clicked the button, and presto!  My digits stared back at me in undeniable accuracy.  Is that really how those races went?  I remember being so much better.  I have to wonder if this running window to the past is actually a good thing.  Maybe.

I scanned my races.  Nothing very impressive at all and here is why I dislike this little bubble bursting genie.  I remember them being great!  In New Canaan, Connecticut, I won a four mile race on the fourth of July.  My son was 8 months old, the air was creamed humid soup, and I ran my little heart out.  I turned the last corner of the race breathing like a banshee.  A sidelined gentleman actually told me, “Chill, no one is behind you.”  I thought, the clock is!  It is behind me, in front of me, that tick tock is everywhere!  I doubled over on my knees at the line and heaved in the damp, sopping air.  I toted my kid around on my hip like a gun in a holster.  That’s right, I just won and I got this baby!  I was so proud of myself.

And what a baby he is!

I finished that race in 26:02.  That is a 6:30 mile pace.  Now when I look back at it staring there at me, I think, Gosh, that was not really very good at all.  I can run and run and run (and hopefully run a little more) at a 6:30 pace now.  Then the light came on!  Running for the numbers is not running.  Yes, I want to get better.  Yes, I want to see improvement measured by solid hard core data points like PR’s.  Yes, I want that tangible proof that I can tattoo to my forehead that forever screams at people in sneakers: 17:20 5K.  But, I also want to enjoy the going while the going is good.

Fortunately, I am.  For now, I am going to keep thinking that I can go faster.  That gets me out there pushing the envelope driving me forward, but one day, hopefully not too soon, I am going to say, “There, did it.  Fast as I could ever go.  Yeah me.”  When that happens, I’ll stop breathing like that!

But until then: huff-puff-huff.  I am glad to know that I can totally kick my own once younger ass right now.

Huff-Puff New Canaan!

Bob loops back on the track dripping in sweat and walks along lane seven.

“What are you doing?” Rusty asks.  Bob props his hands on his hips and continues at his leisure walk down lucky seven.  With a contrived Jersey accent Bob answers, “I’m on a union break.”

Ah yes!  A union break!  We got one too.  Today’s workout was a blissfully short, mild child.  It left plenty of oxygen left over to converse and sing while we jogged around the track.  We selected obnoxious songs to get stuck in our heads.  We joked about the word of the day.  Wait, what was the word of the day?

The new guy mentioned Pee Wee Hermann and Chrystee made the leap to Michael Jackson’s new video.  What a day to be a new guy at group!  Conversational pace on the oval is as rare as Rusty showing up with coffee.  What was the word of the day?  Now this is going to bug me.

Maybe I will just satisfy my lack of short term memory for the special word with this very special oldie, but damn goodie photo.  Now that is worth a few words of the day!

Suddenly, I want to stop running. Why?

“Remember,” Rusty says after I complete a couple strides at the starting line of the Santa Barbara News Press Half Marathon, “It’s a long race.”

Over the last ten days, I had completed some very aggressive workouts and felt really good doing them.  However, the Thursday before this race my legs informed me that they were not up for another big push.  I cannot complain because I have been running well below RX pace and feeling good.  If you race in practice, you probably are not going to have anything left to race with on race day.  Logic is an honest beotch.

“Don’t lose your cool,” John Brennand says with a smile and hug at the starting line.  Chrystee thanks him for her number 1 bib.  “You deserve it!”  I pat my number 2.  Earlier in the parking lot a woman spotted my number and huffed to her friend, “She signed up early.”

I tap Michelle good luck and spank my thighs.  “Wake up ladies,” I tell them.  I stuff three Cliff Shot Blocks in my mouth and the gun goes off.  I run a perfectly planned race.  I went out as planned, I dropped to my planned pace on target, and I maintained control.  I could hear runners around me working harder than I was.  I felt comfortable in my zone.  On the long stretch to the cemetery, I stuck behind Tim’s broad shoulders enjoying the draft and letting other runners fall away from us.  The miles came as expected.

I hit the turn around and noticed that I had a sizeable lead.  I told myself, “Four miles, let’s go!”  I felt confident that I could drop my pace home.  People shouted at me, “Go Number 2!”  It made the ten year old in my head snicker, hee hee hee.  “Nice and smooth Drea,” a smiling woman in a cap called out to me.  I was surprised by how many people knew my name and it felt wonderful.  I was leading a race and people were cheering for me, does it get any better as a runner?  Just do not ask the clock.  That tick tock never cheers and he does not lie either.

I run the pop up hill on the return from the Biltmore.  Steeper than long, she is a real brat of a slope.  I watch Tim take her slow.  This is permission to slow down.  Perrrrrr-put-put.  What was that?  My engine turns over.  I notice someone has dropped a Shot Block on the pavement.  Red.  The kind I like and I actually consider picking it up to eat.  I leave the small glob of glucose behind wishing I had my own.  My head begins to swim.

I pass the 10 mile mark on pace, a pace that I know I can handle well, and I get set to crank.  “5K to the finish baby,” I shout at myself.  Joe Howell runs by cheering turning his thumb up and down for me to select and option.  I select up.  Denial sloshes around in my chest and my breathe comes out in mismatched waves.  The huffing and puffing has started at an erratic rate sounding the yellow alarm.  “Dig, dig, dig,” I repeat, but my mile slows.

More cheers and more people knowing my name call out to me.  I want to feel good to enjoy this amazing moment of recognition.  The support is unbelievable, but I am too far gone to receive any lift.  I am disappointed when I see my split at mile 11 and I turn it to the pavement.  “Dig, dig, dig,” I keep repeating and my eyes stay up and focused while my feet turn over beneath me.  I recovered 15 seconds off my mile by mile 12.  Unfortunately, I used my last mist of energy to do it.  The bottom drops out.

I see Rusty up ahead on the bike waiting for me.  My vision turns a bit blurry while my arms swing to the rhythm that I want my legs to go.  “Look ahead Drea,” he calls out, “Pump, Drea, pump.”  Two runners are ahead of me and not making up any time.  They are bonking too.  Get them!  Get them!  Bethany appears from the side lines cheering.  Momentarily, I am so happy to see her that I want to stop and give her a hug.  I do not know why.  Maybe it is because I am sure she knows this pain, this red line before a flat line.  The girl in my head pushes the button, the red one.  Roo-oop, roo-oop, roo-oop, and the alarm is wailing.  Shit.

There is a half mile to go and my body is done.  I do not remember the last time I bonked this horrifically and quickly especially when running a smart race.  I would not have done anything differently.  Yet, I wanted to stop.  The word quit popped up on the telescreen next to the alarm speakers and this is why I am so proud of this race.  I turned it off.  I started to really dig.  Dig, not like panning for gold dig, but Texas Tea dig.  Spindle top baby!  This was serrate cut the running artery and bleed out the last drops digging.  I told myself that this pain is a privilege, be thankful that I can do this.  Be thankful.  Be thankful.  My head spun, vomit crept into my chest and in sight of the finish line, I wanted to cry.  I do not remember crossing the line, but I remember stopping.  Oxygen flowed back into my soul and relief washed me clean.  Clean as in “Hey Drea, Drea just cleaned your clock!”

Clock: 1:22:12.  I know I can go faster.  However, I also know that I could not have gone any faster Saturday November 7, 2009.  The last 6 minutes I was pulling everyone of those seconds out of the fire.  They are my sweet little seconds, all twelve of them and not thirteen.

I won a major race in my beautiful home town.  I won a race that was deemed the USATF Southern California Half Marathon Championship and I got a lovely trophy and interview to go with it.  I had people cheering my name or “Go Number 2!” (hee hee hee) the whole way.

I am thankful for my ability, for my training, for my coach, for my family, and for my drive.  If this race served a purpose, I would say it was renewing my Mental Toughness Certification.  I passed.  I am pleased.  I hope this certification is good for the next couple years at least!  OK Santa Barbara International Marathon, I am locked and loaded full of grrrrr and oh, yeah, more glucose!

Says It All

I could never be a politician.  I think my clinical condition is foot-in-mouth disease.  Oh you know, when you are talking and talking and as you blabber on about things that you really were not wanting to share you hear yourself and yet you do not stop talking.  Hmmmm, that voice sounds like me, facts are accurate, gosh, why is this person divulging all my true colors?  Honesty.   Wait a minute, wait a minute, how can one be honest, and humble, and polite all at the same time? Smile.

I once got the knickname ”Sunny” because I was always beaming with a smile at work.  Beware girl with a grin.  The Santa Barbara News Press Half Marathon is tomorrow.  Mike T from the SBNP called me to ask me some questions.  Kids were whining in the background, dinner was simmering in the pizza box (whole wheat crust, soy cheese, delish!) and I sort of remember what I said to Mike, but not really.

“OK, great Drea,” Mike laughs, “I got the quote.”  Wait, what quote?  What did I say?  I think I said something about “die trying.”  Or was that lie down crying?  I will have to read the paper.  This year the SBHM is the USATF SoCal Half Marathon Championships and I am assuming it is going to be a very challenging race.  I want to do my best.  Oh, that is gonna hurt.

Thursday I picked up my race packet from the SBRunning Co downtown.  Joe was there handing out the goods with Robin.  I got my packet and handed it over to Robin to test my chip.

“Number 2!” Robin says.  Number 2 what?  Race bib number 2?  I chuckled in nervous laughter.  “What time you shooting for Drea?” Robin asked.  Big smile.

“1:30?” Claire asked.  Big smile.  “Faster?” she said.  Smile.

All this smiling and I almost forgot to ask, “Who gets number 1?”

“Number 1, Chrystee Bradley!” Robin announced.  Oh little perk is gonna love that.  Well, Chrystee if this was an Austin Powers movie, you definitely got the better number sister!  Best paint those finger nails purple!

Crinkled for Luck a la AT

This is my second time to receive a single digit number.  The first time was a decade ago in the Austin Motorola Marathon.  Race Director John Connelly was my friend and dished me out I think lucky number 7.  I loved my little number until actual race day.  I lined up with the elites.

“Um,” I pondered, “Why would you gals do short sprints on the pavement before we run 26.2 miles?”  The act of striding baffled me.  Oh this cannot be good.  And it was not.  By mile 1, I could no longer see the single digit runners and the tide quickly swallowed me up in all the four digit regular runners.  I longed for three more digits.  “GIVE ME YOUR DIGITS!” 

“Yeah number 7!” Some one politely cheered.  It felt like I had a scarlet letter branded to my imposter chest.  No matter than no one else cared at all or even understood the significance (at least that is what I tell myself), I wanted that number off.  Thirty minutes after all the other single digit gals finished, I surged the line.  OK, OK, crept the line.

This time I am gonna do number 2 justice!  Wait a minute, wait a minute, what does that mean, number 2?  Number 2.  Hee hee hee.  Hey thanks a lot for giving me number 2!  Maybe I talk about “issues” too much on this blog.  Smile!

Just kidding.  Number 2 rules, right Mr. Powers?

Round, heavy, earth pulls down,

Slowly then suddenly water hits the ground.

Pain unexpectedly soon,

Too early, please wait another moon.

Released to air,

Pale skin ghostly fair.

Too little, too slight,

Weak cries break the night.

Breathe!  Breathe deep,

Eyes open, do not sleep.

Watch me, I love you,

Stay with me, I will hold you.

Hush now it will be a quiet ride.

Weighted lids, tired eyes,

Sink deeply, close tightly,

My hands touch you lightly.

Don’t go, so soon?

I love you, I love you, I love you.

It is terrible to be reminded of your blessings through the pain of others.

Thank you Kid’s Place Live for playing Ray Parker Junior’s classic Halloween hit Ghostbusters.  My son has requested the song beyond my finger count each day since he first heard those eternal words, “Who ya gonna call?”

My ears have been victim to the onslaught of 80’s rhythm mixed in a nacho cheese chorus that you just cannot help but love to hate.  As the bah-nah, bah-nah, bah-nah beat pulses through the house, I turn to my husband and lip sync perfectly the best line Ray’s got, “Bustin’ makes me feel good.”

Oh yeah.  That’s right Dr. Venkman and all you other parasychologists-turned-ghost-exterminators, putter up your proton packs and get ready to cross streams, bah-nah, bah-nah, “Bustin’ makes me feel good.”

What does this have to do with running?  OK, since you clearly do not dabble in the paranormal and cannot read my mind, I will speak runner.  Track, I am talking about Tuesday track.

My legs and lungs felt much improved today and my back stood at no worse an ache than Saturday.  “If you go out faster,” Rusty starts to say and then changes his mind, “No, don’t just go out at 90 and start dropping two seconds per lap.”

Tim forgot his watch and so his trust is in my hands or new Nike Lunar Racers.  Cha-chow.  Lap 1, too fast.  Lap 2, too fast, Lap 3, too fast.  Dang, but it felt like butter and for the first time in a long time, I am not the one breaking up the sound waves with huffing lungs.  Nope the boys are doing that today while my breathe cruises along with easy exhales.  As the rabbit out front, the mutinous pace is all my fault.  Lap 4, too fast.  Lap 5, perfect.  One out of six ain’t bad.  Lap 6, “Bustin’ makes me feel good.” 

At the finish, some boys bent over on their knees and took long deep inhales.  “Bustin’ makes me feel good.”  I annoyingly bounced around with a smile.

“Gee, I wish I had that energy,” Jill says.

“What, did you sleep?” Rusty asks.  Yep, all the way to 3:30am…… but, “Bustin’ makes me feel good!”

Start spreadin’ the news….

It’s an apple of a day….

Tulu won the New York City Marathon by 8 seconds now what do you say….

I’d say that was great, did you really say 8?

Petrova, Daunay, and Radcliffe were just ticks away….

From the start to the park….

But I really want to know….

How ran Nichol?  XXXFAB:08  (Ooops, I see that Nichol does not want it disclosed.  WHY?)

Eight?  Eight!  Hey, my snow white ate a bite out of eight of my new green apples in my borough too.  Does any of this make sense?  Of course not, but I wish I was in the park this morning!

Congratulations Nichol!!!!!!  There I spead the news!