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!

Happy Halloween!  OK, Briz and I were the only ones to honor the day with some sort of attire.  I see that Brian under took his committment to the dark holiday a little more gravely than mine.  But hey, I got skulls and cross bones and purple finger nails and in the aftermath of a tough workout he just has witch on his face.  Talk about Tammy Faye gone astray! 

What did we put in our treat baskets this morning?  How about a few wicked miles.  It was supposed to be a marathon tempo workout.  We ran part of the course including surging up Cliff Drive hill.  My back has been in so much pain that I was elated to feel just a dull ache throbbing between the shoulder blades instead of a jack hammer.  Mile 1 started out like good listeners: 6:37.  Then we got possessed.  Miles started dropping until Tim announced, “Uh 5:52 pace guys.”  I think I said a bad word, but on the gently down sloping Las Positas section of the course that 5:52 felt utterly effortless.  Then we hit the hill.  Even Ricky, who notoriously hates hills, dashed up it at a 6:40 pace.

A few weeks ago, I grumbled that the guy’s did not have to wear a sports bra.  Well, I found a fabulous reason to wear one besides being conservative and lady like and oh yeah appropriate.  I stuffed some Cliff Shot Blocks along the neck line and popped one of those purple puppies at the Cliff summit.  As we re-traced our quick steps back to our starting line, I continued to feel pretty good.  Nice place to stick a treat!  I think I will be squirreling about six blocks in there come race day.

Back on the reverse course, there is significantly more uphill going the way we do not go on race day.  Alright!  However, that did not slow our pace much and as we whipped back along Modoc it became obvious that we were turning this practice into a little race.  I had the song “Man Eater” stuck in my head so I figured I would push the finishing sprint.  Nevermind that I finished almost last, I ran a 15K PR!  What?  57:17 for the 15K at Saturday practice and it did not feel like a race.  OK, OK, that is measured on the GPS on Tim’s wrist so it is highly likely to be somewhat inaccurate, but just for treats, I keeping that a truth and not a trick.

Then I got to lie on blocks of ice in the parking lot.  Thanks for not running me over Veta!  As good as it felt to push the pace today, I know I cannot do that on race day.  I cannot do that on race day.  I cannot do that on race day.  One more time?

There are 20 miles before a 10K.  Hmmmmm, maybe I need to stuff more than six cubes in my boobs.

I went to another chiropractor today.  I probably would not have given it another try, but Rusty recommended Jim Cochran and since Rusty is never wrong, well I figured I could give it one more try.  Dr. Cochran was fantastic.  We both agreed that “not running” was not an option.  Next, go figure, he actually found the exact part in my back that was messed up without me hinting at it.  I believe it went like this:

“It doesn’t hurt here.”

“Nope.”

“It hurts here.”

“Yep.”

“And here and here, but not here.”

“Yes that is exactly right.”

Then CRACK.  Deep breathe.  CRACK.  No weird massage, no over the counter icy hot.  He found the rotated bits and called them out.  Why would I not believe him?  So there is my recommendation on chiros.  Now, George, was that the guy?

Now……just to gossip, because well, I shouldn’t, but I just want to.  Sugar, you will never believe what I saw today!  I was plotting my life into my day planner outside Santa Barbara Running Company in Goleta.  I was going to go in and purchase The Stick.  You know, another toy to soothe my messed up muscles.  Anyway, there I sat scribbling when a silver car pulled into a spot in front of me with a pretty long haired blonde woman in the driver’s seat and a cute curly topped toddler in the back.  She had on big black sun glasses.  She parked her car and began picking her nose.  I watched her pick and pick and pick and then……… then she stuck her FINGER IN HER MOUTH!

Now, I know we runners can be all kind of nasty, so I really shouldn’t indulge in her digestion of nasal cookies, but the last time I ate a bugar, I think I was 5.  I remember telling my sister it tasted like pineapple.  She got all grossed out so I ate another one and told her it really tasted like pineapple.  It was a long road trip.  This was well before portable DVD’s.  My parents wouldn’t play music.  It wasn’t my fault! 

Don’t eat your bugars in parking lots.

Rusty worked on my back before my first ever chiropractor appointment today.  I have also been a believer in do not fiddle with your spine, but I thought it would be worth a try since I have not slept in 10 days and a “God Bless You” makes me cry. 

Have you been worked on by Rusty?  Fingers of steel, knuckles like locomotives, knowledge of pressure points that leave the after taste of breakfast or last night’s dinner for that matter lingering in your nostrils, the man knows how to handle you.  We may just all take for granted a little bit how good he actually is.

My chiro for the hour on the clock runs through a medical check list and asks me some questions.  When he finds out that I am a nurse with a master’s degree he looks at me like the street peddler trying to sell a bicycle to a fish.  Let’s get started then.

He puts hot compresses on my back and then rubs some spicy cream.  My three year old rubbed some spicy cream on me last night at home.  He was thrilled with his work saying, “There, there Mommy, I’m a good doctor.”

Then came the massage.  “Let me know if this is too much pressure,” he asks.  Oh sorry, did you already start?  He continues to rub and pat and checks in again about too much pressure.   Then he twists my legs a couple of times and my back cracks.  I do not feel any better, no worse.

“What have you been doing since the accident?”

Well, like I said, I’m a runner.

“But you haven’t been running have you?”

Yes I have.  80 miles per week.

“You are going to have to stop running.  I will see you back Wednesday and Friday this week.”

No, I am sorry. You won’t.  I think I will go shop your opinion around town.