Alston and Bird Corporate Cup Half Marathon, March 10, 2012: Race Report

With over 2300 runners participating in the Alston and Bird Corporate Cup 5K and Half Marathon, the first race of the Spring running season, early morning in downtown Charlotte was buzzing with pre-race energy. Bright a.m. sun with only the slightest chill to the air provided excellent race conditions. The large crowd was herded like cattle across the start line, then the zig and zag of maneuvering my way to a comfortable place in the race began. At an 8:48 per mile pace, I ran the fastest 5K I’ve ever run in my life.

But I wasn’t running the 5K. I had ten more miles to go.

So, I’ll back up my report just a bit here and cover some additionally important full-picture details. Baby Forest woke up two times the night before. The details are sketchy. I know for sure that I woke up at 5:15 with a baby in my armpit. He nursed, and then I put him back in his crib and went back to my own bed for 13 more minutes of sleep.

It was a quick 13 minutes. Next thing I knew, it was time to get up, have my trusty pre-race breakfast of Grape-Nuts, too much coffee, and not enough water. My neighbor/running partner picked me up at 6:45, and with jittery bellies and full bladders, we headed downtown to find a place to park and pick up our timing chips.

We bantered about my favorite race topics: are we going to need these gloves and hat? Will I survive with just water station stops or should I bring this cumbersome water bottle? Did you bring your Gu Chomps? Where is my race bib?! Oh my word, I left it at the, oh wait, there it is. If I put my Gu Chomps in my rump pocket, will it make my behind look that much bigger since I seem to have some additionally stubborn baby-having flesh about my bottom half? If we go to the potty twice before the race begins, will that keep me from peeing on myself around mile 10? Is a 2:15 a wacky goal?

We found our free parking, picked up our timing chips, used the potty, used the potty again, then we were off, ready to run 13.1 miles.

Now, let’s pick up the story at the 5K mark.

The 5Kers broke off and I kept wondering if my Garmin was playing tricks on me, because it had me at a steady 8:48 mile pace. I don’t run 8:48s. Or do I?

Around the 6th mile I thought, wow, this feels good. Maybe it’s time for a Gu Chomp.

The directional short version for taking such energy performance supplements is Gu early and Gu often. I have always disliked such products. Eating as I run has always felt counterintuitive and flat-out awkward, so I have always waited until I am already exhausted and way past the point of being helped by an energy aid, then I clumsily fiddle with the packaging and completely lose my rhythm. But I thought, why not try to follow the directions this time and see what happens. I even went so far as to have the package already opened so I wouldn’t have to go through the angst of trying to open it mid-run. Forward thinking, I know.

I chomped and grabbed some water at the 6th mile. It was only mildly graceful as I spilled half the water all over myself; the tossed Dixie cup missing the trash can by a long shot. I shook off the littering worry and braced myself for the monster road hill that I knew was coming, even averting my eyes from the mass of black pavement ahead.

Yet the hill came and went, and I was pleased that I didn’t expend a lot of negative physical and mental energy on the spot. And it was a good thing, because the 8th mile was rapidly upon me.

Mile 8

There’s a funny phenomenon around the 8th mile that happens to me. It never occurs during a leisurely, for-pleasure long run; it only happens at races. At mile 8 I am suddenly bombarded with emotions of thrill and gratitude and delight that for some reason are so overwhelming, I start to feel like I’m going to cry. And I’ve noticed that the more I try to fight them off (because who wants to be the chick who cries as she runs?), the more I choke on the feelings. I think about my kids. I think about my husband. I know they are waiting somewhere on the course for me and I decide it’s better to have this gasping, spluttering outpour of psychophysical reactions now than when I actually see them, otherwise I might collapse in a heap of tears at their little sure-to-be perplexed feet and DNF the race.

All the while I am glancing at my Garmin noticing that I have yet to cross over the 10 minute mile pace. As a matter of fact, I continue to stay well below. And I feel, dare I say, better than decent.

We wound our way through a zone of subtle hills, and just as I am readied to round the corner and head into the tenth mile, I saw the loveliest sight I’ve ever known. There was a man holding a baby, wildly waving and woot-wooting. A goldilocked little girl happily ringing what I later found out was a borrowed cow bell from a neighboring race enthusiast. And a big boy so delighted by my long-awaited presence he couldn’t help but run out to me and grab my hand. I instinctively slowed down, and tossed the unnecessary hat and gloves I’d been clutching for the last 9 and a half miles. The man with the baby in his arms yelled, keep going! Go, mama, go!

So I kept going with only a small inkling of why doesn’t Forest have a hat on his head? preoccupation. After all, loading up three kiddies to watch mommy run is its own marathon. He’s a good man.

Mile 10

That’s when it happened. It wasn’t a complete system breakdown, but I was overtly aware that my fluid flight was beginning to border on laborious. My knees were still rising and falling in a cyclical motion, so I had not entered the just shuffle ‘til it’s over zone, but I was starting to feel my body.

Mile 11

The last two and half miles were nothing more than a steady up-road incline. Just as I was reminding myself that I have felt bodily actions more intense than this, for much longer than this (giving birth, for example), I caught my running partner’s gaze.

What are you smiling about? she asked, sporting a grin of her own.
Oh good, I thought. I’m still smiling. I didn’t want to Negative Nancy the experience, but I hoped if I went ahead and said it out loud, the power of the impending hip nag would lighten.

My hips hurt, I admitted, imagining the relief they would feel if I could stop and do one giant high school cheerleader sized herkie, they would then crack and give way to a swift leg turnover. I vowed to incorporate a stretching regimen into my daily life.

Mile 12

My soreness admission didn’t seem to drag anyone down. I had another Gu Chomp at the last water station, in complete disbelief that we were nearly finished. I kept glancing at my Garmin, certain I was running in the 12 minute mile zone. But I wasn’t. At my slowest moment, I hovered at 10.

The finish line was in view, and according to my watch I was not only going to come in under my 2:15 goal, I was going to finish with a PR. I still had a little steam left in me, so I charged forward. A vague sense of nausea came over me, but I kept chugging along.

Then I saw my cheerleaders. Mark had managed to reload the troops into the car at 9.5 miles, drive over to the end of the race, and meet me at the finish. Just the last second boost I needed to propel me happily over the finish line.

A very shivery Stella admired my medal that had been placed around my neck.

You winned the race! she boasted.

Baby Forest gave me his best I Heart My Mommy grin. And Heath gave me a hearty high five.

Nice race, mom, he complimented, while looking past me to the baby pool loaded with blue and red and purple energy drinks. Now can I have a Powerade?

2:09:40

It is good to be back.

A Week In the Life

My motherhood rhythm has been off this week. I’ve had to break it down into smaller victories so as to not completely lose what is left of my mind. No one starved. No one remained dirty.

Big needs were met, but the little things felt weighty. Tiny little gnats slapping me upside the head. Multiple emails sat in the Draft Box. Never-ending loads of laundry half-folded, the other half staring at me from the sofa, and another load already lining up in front of the washer. Grocery bags on the floor that seemed to take an extraordinarily long time to unload because someone had a need more pressing than getting the Kale in the fridge in a timely manner, like Heath running into the house to inform me that Stella was pooping in the backyard. For the second time this week. Apparently she is too busy to stop doing whatever she is doing to come inside and take care of such business.

And after at least six weeks of solid sleeping through the night, Baby Forest decided to shake things up a bit and wake up at two. And four. And six. Just when I was starting to think I might be catching up from months of bleary-eyed, zombie-like living, here we are again.

By Thursday, just when I was quite certain I would not be able to take another sleep deprived day, I discovered the ACC basketball tournament was on. It’s March? How the heck did this happen? Where have I been? Where am I? Who are all these kids?!

That same night, Heath and Stella were in the bath tub, not at all minding my pleas to keep the water in the tub. They kept reassuring me that it was all part of their pirate boat crashing game. I kept reassuring them that they would be taking separate baths for the rest of their childhood if they continued.

Baby Forest kicked about in his baby bath tub, making just as big of a water fall mess as his older siblings. I took the opportunity to ask him if he remembered that I had a race to run on Saturday and would it be too terribly inconvenient to not get up all night long for the next night or two. He gave me a bright-eyed wide, gummy grin, completely evading my question.

But that’s when I saw it. The swollen spot on his bottom gum, surrounding the slightest hint of white tooth ridges. Baby Forest’s first tooth had broken through!

That’s why you’ve been so wakeful, I said, reaching a finger into his mouth. He latched on with his right hand just as I rubbed the edgy enamel. He held onto my finger and gave it gentle nibbles, while furiously kicking his feet in the water.

Where have the last six months gone? I wondered aloud, taking a long, deep breath, relishing the tender moment between mom and baby. It’s going too, too fast, I sighed.

And then I got smacked in the back of the head by a wayward Pirate rubber ducky.

I wonder what this next week will bring.

Post-Baby Running, Personal Trainers, and Fartlek Motivators

Baby Forest will be six months old on March 6th, and four days after that, I will run my first postpartum half marathon. Getting back into long run shape has been nothing less than a humbling roller coaster ride full of warm-heart bursting personal triumphs and boo-hoo sludge-covered, uphill trudging.

I never quit running entirely while I was pregnant. Of course, I wasn’t Amber Miller the woman who ran the Chicago Marathon at 39 weeks pregnant, then gave birth to her second child several hours later, but I exercised with great regularity. I ran the morning Forest was born. On a treadmill. For thirty minutes. And calling it running may be a stretch. Trotting is a more accurate description, and I don’t know that I actually made it a mile in that thirty minutes. My point is (before I start to feel ridiculously sorry for myself) I exercised my entire pregnancy and that helped tremendously when it came to hitting the road after the baby was born. But let’s face it, there’s a distinct period of transition that occurs from trotting with an 8 pounder in your belly to not having that baby in your belly anymore.

Two weeks after Forest was born, I was managing a two mile run at an almost non-wincing, lumbering twenty minute mile pace, quite certain I was never going to be able to run again without peeing all over myself. At four weeks I was able to push a baby and one preschooler in a jogging stroller with minimal need to borrow one of Forest’s diapers, but mid-hill I would question whether or not I needed to go back and pick up my uterus. I was reminded at my 6 week OB visit to do those Kegels, Lady! (I’m doing some right now as I type.) At eight weeks I was clipping along at my original twelve minute mile zone and breezily taking care of 4 miles. Twelve weeks rushed by and I found myself in the ten-minute mile pace territory I had rarely dared to cross. And at 16 weeks I realized that running a half marathon in March didn’t seem too terribly lofty.

But many days the fatigue of parenting three small children, breastfeeding a baby, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, taking kids to preschool/dance/flag football/playdates, volunteering at their school, writing, checking in with friends and family, brushing my teeth, blah, blah, blah, blah…well, my running can feel like I’m pushing all three kids in a rickshaw-sized triple jogger, legs spinning furiously in place, getting nowhere, slowly, and I think I must be out of my mind for even considering a half marathon.

After I dropped Heath off at preschool today, I headed home with Stella and Forest, already semi-dressed for a run, double jogger sitting out in front of the house accepting no excuses for not being used, and feeling unenthusiastic about putting my body into motion. I quickly found some excuses. Forest fell asleep in the car and I didn’t want to wake him. Stella wanted to watch Miss Sunny’s Spider Patch Friends and I didn’t want to wake the whining beast inside her. Emails needed to be answered. Calls needed to be made. Laundry needed to be started. Guilt hovered above me. And then it was ten and despite having had breakfast and six snacks, Stella was asking for lunch. Forest was awake and in need of a scenery-change as well. So we loaded up the jogging stroller and headed out with a mild case of running depression that I hoped would be cured by a 4-miler.

Five houses deep into the run, I glanced to the left at the house of my running partner/neighbor, hoping she would be outside with her son. You know, to stop and chat and never start this run back up again and maybe try again tomorrow. But she wasn’t there, so I plodded along, handing cracker bowls to Stella and listening to Forest sing to the trees overhead.

Just before I rounded the corner out of our neighborhood, two lady runners crossed the street in front of me. I stopped the jogger to let them by, certain my slow pace and buggy pushing was not going to match their steady clip. They looked back at us and said, actually, you may be faster than we are, then their ponytails bounced off. At that very moment I found myself wrestling the jogger through an overgrown bush and was acutely aware that I was not donning cantaloupe colored tech tees and azure arm warmers. No. I was wearing a Gym Teacher Gray Sweatshirt and my husband’s running shorts. I was not a running fashion speed demon force to be reckoned with.

It’s not that I detected the slightest bit of sarcasm in their voice. I didn’t. As a matter of fact, I kind of got the impression they were being courteous and aware of the fact that we were on a major road with little to no room for passing, and the mom with a terrible case of bedhead, two kids, and a dismal running attitude might need to be up front. But when they started to pull away from me, and I was finally able to dislodge the stroller’s front wheel from an unruly shrub, I took the opportunity and drive to do a little speed work.

I’ve always heard the best way to improve your pace is to run with faster people. So that’s what I set out to do. I was going to catch those faster-than-me ladies. My legs propelled themselves as if independent from my body. Then I had to slow down for another street curb hedge, instructing Stella to keep her limbs inside the jogger, mommy doesn’t have time to stop. I tried to hold my body erect, as opposed to lying down on the stroller’s handlebars to take a running nap like I usually do. Stella’s motivational chants ranged from you gotta catch those lady runners to you’re never gonna catch those lady runners. I attempted to remove the burdensome thick cotton top layer without actually stopping. The stroller veered left, while I extracted my right arm.

Lady runners are getting away, Stella warned.

I stopped undressing, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and plowed forward, one arm of my sweatshirt wrapped around my neck, flapping in the breeze behind me. And then I heard the chimey ding-a-ling of my mile marker Garmin. 9:02 mile pace; a personal best.
At some point I lost sight of my lady running partners. Maybe I passed them while I was yanking my sweatshirt over my head. But I think Stella was right. I was never gonna catch those lady runners. I settled back into a luxurious 10 minute mile, then 11, then back to 10, all the while shaking off those runner’s blues.

It worked. I might even go so far as to say that I’m getting excited about my upcoming 13.1. And now I have a race plan: find a couple of ladies who run faster than I do and chase them like a maniac.