Almost a Year Later, I Have Feelings

It's been nearly one full year since I ran the Boston Marathon. I finished the race and immediately thought "NEVER AGAIN." Not a "never" to the marathon as a race distance, but to Boston. Never. Again.

Granted, the weather in 2015 was hideous: rain, wind, rain, 40 degrees, rain following the runners, wind. Oh, and cold rain. In fact, after the race my husband asked me if it had rained the whole time because, well, where he and the kids were in Boston, it had only started to rain about 20 minutes before I saw them. Oh, bless your heart, dear husband, but no. The rain started at mile 3 and, hardy har, the front moved towards Boston basically along the race route. With the runners. Into the headwinds which--and I'm not meteorologist--I have no idea how that happens.

But it wasn't just the weather that left a bad taste in my mouth. In the weeks leading up to the race--hell, the years I'd imagined actually running Boston--all anyone could talk about was how AMAZING the experience would be, how LOUD the crowds would be, how FRIGGIN MAGICAL the entire race from Hopkinton to Boston would be. And I felt, really, none of that. Again, maybe it was due to the weather, but until we got about halfway through, the crowds were pretty thin. I was glad to have music to keep me, uh, focused. Maybe it was because by the time I actually got to race day I was so burned out from training and a 3-day-a-week CrossFit habit that I was too tired to buy into the hype. Maybe I was hangry the whole way. Maybe the refugee camp Athletes' Village was more intense than I'd planned; bodies strewn and huddled together over the entire surface area of grass covered by a circus tent. Maybe, surrounded by runners much, much faster than me, I let that imposter syndrome sink too far in; I never believed I belonged on that starting line.

Whatever the reason, I was almost as disappointed in how UNmagical I felt in the race as I was in my crapola performance. My husband cleaned the bathtub of our rented apartment so I could sit in a hot eighteen inches of water while my stomach slowly unclenched. He brought me a Coke to sip, a soft drink which I actually DID come to believe held magical powers. And I swore I would NEVER RUN BOSTON AGAIN.

But, uh. Well. You know how when you have a baby and it's so god-awfully painful and uncomfortable and undignified and you SWEAR you'll never have another baby and then, haha, that baby smell intoxicates your brain and suddenly you're flushing your birth control down the toilet? So many of my Oiselle teammates and other friends happen to be running this year. After an atypically mild winter of training. They're excited and hyped and ready to go and where the hell is all this FOMO coming from? Remember: I'M NEVER EVEN GOING TO ATTEMPT TO RUN BOSTON AGAIN.

Or, wellllllll, maybe if I happen to requalify someday and the next time I could run it I'll be over 40 so there's 5 more minutes on my qualifying time and maybe it actually wasn't as horrible as I'm remembering and the weekend was really fun and Boston's such a cool city and only a 6 hour drive away and--

Wait.
Breathe.

Boston Marathon weekend is amazing. The entire city sizzles with endophins and nervous energy and anticipation. Bostonians and their thousands of college student residents go bananas for the race. Walking around the city in your freshly-earned jacket makes you feel like a total rock star. There's a camaraderie that's earned the second you spot someone at the highway rest stop or in the airport wearing their unicorn medal or garishly-colored adidas jacket.


Ah, who knows. I worked my butt off once to qualify, and maybe that was enough. I ran it. I did not do well (for my own self) but I will admit that the finish down Boylston Street ranks up there with the top race experiences of my life. So maybe that's the draw, huh? Same as when that baby finally comes out, and the pain is gone, and what you have left is the satisfaction after going through the impossible, the promise of a life ahead; a joyful, grateful life after all. It was worth it, it's incredible. Maybe just one more time to experience that joy, that feeling of being part of a much, much bigger whole.

But first, just like post-baby, give me a shower, a beer,  and lots of snacks.

Goal Race or Hellish Winterscape?

This past Sunday, April 3, I ran my goal race, the race I'd spent 12 weeks training for, the Syracuse Half Marathon. It was, well, utterly hellacious. Not because of how I felt, or the course, or my nutrition or training or sleep. Not because of poor organization or lack of communication. No porta-potty emergencies. Nope, not even a wardrobe malfunction, lost toenail or bra-band chafing.

It was the hideous weather. You can read more about the weather here or here. Ironically, organizers moved this race back two weeks from mid-March to better ensure nicer weather. Ha. Ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA NOPE. Without a doubt this race provided the absolute worst weather I've ever raced in, let alone spent that much time training in.

Of course I'd been obsessively checking the ten-day weather forecast for Syracuse, but when it originally predicted 30MPH+ winds and cold temps, I stopped checking. I just packed almost every piece of cold-weather running gear I own and hoped for the best. Do I need to mention when I arrived in Syracuse Saturday afternoon it was windy but 55 degrees? No? Yeah, no need to acknowledge that cruelty. Kind of like the entire weekend before last year's Boston was sunny and 60 degrees.

And then the forecast got worse. I woke up Sunday morning in my peaceful, comfortable king-sized bed, ALONE, to the metallic clang and scrape of snowplows outside. Not a good sign, actually. When I peeked through the curtains I almost jumped back into bed: the flag outside my window was whipping horizontally and the landing and streets were coated with at least three inches of snow.

I have the best race weather luck.

Anyway. I reevaluated my race outfit, and settled on my Wazzie Wool half zip top under my long-sleeve Oiselle singlet, fleece-lined Moto Lesley tights, Wazzie Wool gaiter, gloves and hat. My cushy Stance socks inside my new adidas Energy Boost 3s on my feet.

I met some people in the lobby of my hotel who happened to be teammates of a girl I was planning to meet from my Oiselle team. We walked to the start together. Honestly, the sidewalks on that first trek outdoors were snow-covered, but the streets seemed manageable. The weather was cold and windy, but not completely unbearable.

I'll skip to the good stuff. It got exponentially worse, weather-wise. The first mile, which included a pretty significant uphill, was slippery but not impossible. The wind was blasting us cross-wise. Around the second mile things seemed doable; some slippery spots, some slushy potholes, wind around some turns. My feet were quite frozen but I was doing my best to avoid the huge puddles that filled the streets. Typical bad-winter-weather running.

Until I got to around mile 6. It was as though we entered another dimension. Suddenly snow was annihilating our faces, completely blinding me, forming glaciers along the ridge of my hat, eyelashes, eyebrows, gaiter, gloves. I was a running snowman. At this point, though, I think we all assumed it was a squall that would just pass us by.

It wasn't.

Flash forward to around the 15 kilometer mark. I was, surprisingly, ahead of the pace I'd expected to run. Every mile that had clicked by was faster than it felt. But that 15K mark held a wall of suck that I just slammed into head first. Suddenly my legs just could not move through the 3 inches of ice and snow that had accumulated along the course. I fought for traction just to get down the street as I tried to push of the ground. The last three miles of the race were a simple fight to get to the finish without falling and breaking my ass. I crossed the finish line, eventually, and was in complete disbelief that I, along with 3700+ other runners, had just lived through that.

I can't even really remember most of the race. Mostly because I couldn't actually see out of my eyes for at least half of it. What I do remember is a pretty good course, despite the weather. Volunteers and spectators willingly standing outside in the roaring wind and snowy vortex to help and cheer us on. Fighting every instinct I had to drop out, find a warm restaurant and thaw my frozen self. I would actually do this race again and think I would do well if the weather wasn't completely Arctic. I met up with two of my Oiselle teammates, and their run team; I may have even found my new running coach among them. I got to share in the run-crazy-insanity of this now-legendary race day. It wasn't all bad.

I am tremendously proud of how I did in the race overall, in spite of the weather. Not only did I not give up, I ran pretty smart through the whole race and felt good. So now what? Three days post-race I feel good, nearly 100% recovered. A yoga class Monday night, Spin Tuesday and TRX today has me feeling refreshed and ready to run tomorrow. And, based on how the rest of the week goes, I think I'm going to sign up for another race that's in two and a half weeks. Why waste this fitness? I'd like to give it another go and see what I can do right now. Not shooting for a PR or any records. I would love to get back to a race time that has me feeling confident.

We'll see how it goes.