Month: September 2015

‘Mom, just want to be clear: I don’t care if we run tomorrow, but I’m happy to run it if you want to run it.’  My hamstrings were still sore from last week’s Navy-Air Force Half, and I was just generally tired from having just arrived the night before from a work trip to Mexico.

‘Well, I haven’t been training or anything.  But I’ll run it if you want to run it.’

With neither of us strongly opposed to running, the default was: run.

My mom is pretty selective about her races.  She’ll do the Race for the Cure 5k in May, in celebration of her survivorship.  She’ll do the Bethesda Turkey Chase 2mi fun run in November, Bethesda’s biggest event of the year.  And she’ll do Ellen’s Run.

Ellen’s Run is the closest I get to racing in my backyard.  The 5k course starts in Candy Cane City, just on the Maryland side of Rock Creek Park.  It winds through the parking lot where I first learned to ride a two-wheel bike (I can still recall the terror of my dad pushing me along and then suddenly letting go and yelling ‘pedal!’).  It passes by the playground that many iterations ago was made of wood that splintered into your fingertips.  And of course it cuts through the woods of Rock Creek Park, where  in the old days when no one was alarmed by the sight of two 7-year old girls wandering around in the woods on their own, in search of red-headed woodpeckers and muscrats.  In the last mile, you loop around the soccer fields, home to the legendary Nelson family Thanksgiving football games.  Not sure how a game that was supposedly ‘touch’ football could end with so many wounded sprawled on the field.

Ellen’s Run was first held a decade ago, 6 months after the death of Ellen Vala Schneider.  Ellen had been a highly engaged member of the Chevy Chase community prior to succumbing to her long-standing depression in February 2006, when she drowned herself in the Potomac waters off the Billy Goat Trail.  Her children attended BCC High School, where the community rallied to set up a run in her honor and to raise awareness and funding for mental health.  Ellen’s Run gets a healthy 350+ turnout every year, but retains a strong community feel.  BCC comes out in force, including the runners and coaches of the cross country team.  I always see my old BCC history teacher Bob Mathis, and sometimes my old soccer coach Pam Havel.  Ellen’s husband and two sons are there, always bringing a solemn poignancy.

I’ve run Ellen’s Run 4 times — and won it 4 times.  In 2008, 2009, 2012, and this year, 2015.  It’s a fast course — I’ve run it as fast as 17:34 (2012).  Since the BCC boys cross country team runs it, I’ve had some spirited contests with boys not used to being beat by a girl.  This year I did not ‘race’.  But I knew that I could trot along happily at the same pace that won the NAF Half last week (6:05/mi) and still have a good shot of winning.

After I finished, Aaron and I looped around the earlier points of the course to cheer on my mom.  She was pleased to break 40 minutes, and even more pleased to see the sun peaking out.  The awards ceremony is always a moving affair, with words from Ellen’s son and husband, and an outpouring of support for all the many volunteers who have put all the blood, sweat, and tears into making the race happen each fall.  I won a dinner for 2 (limit $100) to Suski-Ko, the fancy Japanese restaurant in Friendship Heights.  I’ll be taking my mom.

Ellen’s Run has become a tradition for me and my mom (see 2012 race report), and both of our eyes got misty when the race organizers announced that, after a decade of Ellen’s Runs, this year would be the last.  Suddenly we were so glad that we’d made the last-ditch effort to be out there this morning, and to be part of this special little race for one last time.

 

All of the talks at the Mexican Virology Congress (except for mine and the other plenaries) are in Spanish.  So the marmot’s got a lot of free time on her hands.  My favorite way of passing the time so far has been to make lists of ‘Yay!’ and ‘Boo!’.  This appears to be my new favorite game during boring meetings.  Expect this list to continue to expand as the meeting wears on:

 

Yay!	Boo!
Lionel Messi	Daniel Snyder
Women’s Half Marathon	Holiday Lake
Asian Small-Clawed Otters	Mosquitos
Vace Pizza	Mayonnaise
Running in the Sodds	Running on the C&O
Thai massage	Hot yoga
People who are funny	People who are not funny
Spending time with family (<48 hrs)	Spending time with family (>48 hrs)
Wedding cake	Wedding toasts
Lobster	Frozen fish
Taking wildlife photos with Aaron	Smiling for photos
Pilates with Mom and Cecile	The pilates lady who breathes loud
Vacations	Planning for vacations
Shelter/rescue animals	When people pretend to love all animals and then buy purebreds
Meyer Dairy	When people pretend that sorbet is even within the same order as ice cream
Fans at Boston Marathon	Logistics at Boston Marathon
Seinfeld	Friends
New Zealand	Flying to New Zealand
Running with Sean	Dealing with Sean
Stone House	Building 12b basement
Wailing guitars	Regina Spector
Wegmans	The fact that DC has no Wegmans
Altras	Vibrams
Canada Goose Coats	Winter
White Grass XC Ski Area	Winter
Skiing in Frisco	Winter
Pull-buoys	Goggles
WUS	Jennifer
The Wire	The War on Drugs
Car Seat Heaters	Winter
Beer Mile	Morning after the Beer Mile
Rock Creek Park	Rapists
Being Jewish	Fasting
How people who drive Jeeps wave to each other	When we forget we’re in a rental car and wave at the confused person in the Jeep
My job	Describing what I do to people I meet the first time
Writing my blog	Knowing that I should be doing work instead of writing my blog
My simple minimalist $25 Under Armour sports bras, circa 2007	Lululemon, for making $50 sports bras standard
Anna Karenina	Robinson Crusoe
Metro	Metro
Bike gloves	Bike seats
Getting haircuts	Makeup
Pooping	Pooping during a race
Catherine the Great	Every Russian leader since Catherine the Great
Berger cookies	Diabetes
NIH	DHS
Max Beckmann	Goethe
Alice and Isabella	Italian bureaucracy
Winning a race	Being asked before the race if you’re gonna win
USWNT	FIFA
Golden lion tamarins	Temple monkeys
Japanese food	Japanese desserts
Horton swag	Horton
Science	Jenny McCarthy
Ponies	Girls who actually had ponies growing up and don’t call their parents every day to thank them for it
Adaeze	Naveen
Ryan Paavola	People who actually refer to themselves as ‘elite’ runners
Stone Mill 50	JFK
Watching sports games	Watching sports games with Bob
Cleveland Park	800 sqft apt (2 people, 1 cat, 3 bikes)
DC Public Libraries	DC Parking Enforcement
Dark chocolate	Milk Chocolate
DCA	IAD
Playing tennis	Playing doubles with Bob
Jen’s cookies	Jen’s job
Trainwreck	Watching Trainwreck with a family member
Butterflies	Butterfly collectors
Aaron	Lyme disease
Amherst XC	Ned
Chicago	O’Hare
Next-generation sequencing	Assembling next-gen data
Skiing in the Italian Alps	Driving a Panda with no snow tires in the Italian Alps
Intercourse	Babies
Food in Barcelona	Trying to get food before 10pm in Barcelona
Some Like It Hot (the Billy Wilder movie)	Some Like It Hot (the Robert Palmer song)

 

 

I got a text from Robin the night before the VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon:

‘Any last minute WHM tips?!’

I replied:

‘Have fun and don’t get wrapped up in how other people are running.  Remember that many of them don’t know the course as well as you do~’

These lines would prove to be prophetic, as Robin’s ability to stick to her guns and run her own race won out when Holly went off course shortly after mile 8.

I thought that I would feel conflicted about not running the VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon this year.  That a little piece of my heart would ache to be out there, bounding along from the Clapons’ Do Loop AS to Juanita’s Canteena, high-fiving friends and tearing up trails.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.  The reason why I never really liked volunteering is because I always felt like I didn’t know what I was doing and was mostly in the way.  Like tagging along with Aaron, taking crappy under-exposed pictures.  But no one knows their way around the Women’s Half like I do.  After rabbiting the opening half-mile (‘Robin, meet Holly.  Holly, meet Robin.’), I went straight to work on the Fountainhead aid station.

‘Did you run this race two years ago?’ one of my co-Fountainhead volunteers asked me.

‘Yup.’

‘Yeah, I remember you.  You came flying in before we were ready with any cups.  You were pissed.  We were all like, Well, guess we dropped the ball on that one.‘

‘Yeah, with your table placed 20 feet off the trail and no one holding out a cup.  While I’m all sweatin’ beads out there.’

So this year, I made it my personal mission to rectify the Fountainhead AS.  The tables were moved right down next to the trail so runners didn’t have to patter up the hill to get some food and drink.  JLD and I took on scouting duties, heading into the woods to call out the leaders so everyone could be ready.

I was wide-eyed as the streams of women came through.  Everyone was giving so much heart!  For some reason I had always imagined that just the top 8 or 10 women were busting their guts, and that the middle-of-the-packers were more kind of fun-running it.  It couldn’t be further from the truth.  It was just wave after wave of blood and sweat and heaving lungs, and we scampered as fast as we could to get them water and gatorade and direct them back on their way.

Satisfied that Fountainhead was now a model of well-oiled aid-stationing efficiency, I headed over towards the second loop to see the finish.  I ran into Q and Stephanie, who told me how Holly had gone off course.  What a punch in the gut.  Holly’s such a talented runner, and has so little time to race these days with two little-uns.  For her to make the trek up here to race and then deal with that kind of frustration…..  I was bowled-over thrilled for Robin, who ran a smart, tough race and deserved every ounce of her victory.  But the only way I could deal with my vicarious frustration for Holly was to grab some tape and go double/triple mark the hairpin turn where she’d gone astray and make sure no one else missed the spin.

The finish area of the WHM is always an especially happy place.  And not just because of what WHTom and Mario put in the smoothies.  Sure, this year I had to explain a bit why I hadn’t run.  I had different explanations for different people, all of which were at least partially true.  Some I told that it was just time to step aside, to have a more exciting race with a new exciting winner.  Fresh blood.  To others I said that it was just becoming a handful, always running with a bulls-eye on your back, and that it was nice to have a laid-back chillin’ August where I didn’t have to have that oh-shit-am-I-fit? moment.  Aaron in particular appreciated the lack of pre-WHM paranoia about being slow and out of shape.  For others I just put it simply that it was time to give back to a race to a race that had given me a lot over the years.  And to others I told a little story about how this weekend I was going to finally do a road race with my office friends: the Navy-Air Force Half Marathon….

I can’t remember the last time I was so downright calm before a race.  No butterflies, no jitters.  Maybe it was the influence of my decidedly chill friends Cecily, Cecile, and Bernard.  Maybe it was the strange anonymity of road races.  There were 5,000+ running the race, and none of them asked me if I was going to win today.  Maybe it was watching the Wounded Warriors start their race 5 minutes before our start, true exemplars of grit.  Some had aerodynamic wheelchairs.  One had two prosthetic legs.  All were inspiring as they disappeared over the hill.

Having just run the NIH relay on Tuesday (our Runners without Borders FIC team finished 11th out of some 100+ teams) and been the rabbit for the WHM on Saturday, my legs were all geared up for a quick start.  I went straight to the front of the women’s field, immediately separating myself and settling into the mass of men.

I wore my Garmin only for record-keeping, and I never glanced at it during the race.  I know exactly what kind of just-below-balls-out pace is right for a half-marathon distance.  I don’t need no stinking watch~.  In just the last few months I have finally made my peace with the whole Garmin/Strava thing.  Prior to meeting Aaron, I was violently anti-Garmin.  But back in December Aaron bought me my first Garmin, along with a heart-rate monitor, and set up my account on Strava.  True to my word, I gave it the ole girl scout try for six full months.  After six months, I gave my verdict:

Verdict #1: I agree that it is useful to keep track of how many miles I run a week.

Verdict #2: I *hate* timing myself during training runs.  Training runs are for relaxing.  I detest even more getting little notifications from Strava that I’ve set a CR for a particular segment — or that someone has broken my CR.  Sometimes at the end of a run I just want to see how many miles I did and it starts flashing things at me: Congratulations, you just PRed in your 15k!!  Congratulations, you just PRed in your 20k!!  And I just want to start smacking it into the concrete.

Ergo…..I will not wear my Garmin during training.  But I will manually enter my daily mileage into Strava.  I will wear my Garmin only when I race, just for record-keeping (no glancing), and when I am in foreign places where I don’t know the distances.  This is my grand compromise.

The first five miles went around Haines Point.  Haines Point is a lovely park, but a terrible place to run, just boring and long.  But it was at least early in the race, and it was a cool, overcast morning and I felt all clippity-clop.  There was a strong wind coming off the Potomac, and I nestled in behind two gentlemen who kindly blocked the gusts.  I like running with men…..  But between miles 4 and 5 arrived the first sign that something had seriously gone south in my abdomen.

Rather than dwell on the discomfort, I tried to focus on how lucky I was that today was not in the middle of a 50 mile trail race.  My belly did not have to skeeter over rocks or bomb down hills.  I could probably even get by without having to eat or drink anything.  All I had to do was keep an even keel across the flat, smooth pavement for another 9 miles and jostle the belly as little as possible.  When I saw Aaron at mile 6, I gave a reassuring thumbs-up.

Miles 6-11.5 were a long out-and-back on Rock Creek Parkway, up to Calvert (but thankfully not all the way up the hill).  I was able to scope out the second place female at the turnaround.  I remembered what Aaron had told me about the optical illusion at turnarounds.  Like side-view car mirrors, there should be a warning at turnarounds: WARNING: the next female is actually much farther back than she appears.  

From the turnaround (just after mile 9) to mile 11.5 was a thrill.  I had a sea of 5,000+ runners coming in the opposing direction screaming First female!  You go girl!  You’re killin’ it!  I can’t say I my stomach felt great, but it was the first point in the race where I was quietly confident that I would get my little tummy across the finish line in first place.  Up until that point I had accepted the reality that my stomach might just burst out on me before I got to 13.1.

When I got to the Memorial Bridge turnaround just before mile 12, I noticed that a different woman was now in second place, a very petit girl (‘Emmy’) who I’d immediately scoped out at the starting corral as the quickest of the lot.  But I had a comfortable lead with just a mile to go, and ended up finishing a minute ahead (1:19:52 v 1:20:48; full Results; I think I set a new CR there).

Even after breaking the tape alongside the Washington Monument, my race didn’t quite end at 13.1.  My stomach was giving out, and I scurried over to the closest port-a-potties at the Medical Tent.  ‘Excuse me, can I use these?’  I was bowled over, clutching my belly.  ‘No, these are for patients,’ he replied sternly.  ‘Oh my god, I’m going to be a patient soon!’ I cried as I scurried across the field to the distant row of johns.

I could go on at length about the day’s stomach eruptions, but my mother tells me that I write too much about poop in this blog.  So I’m just going to sum it up by saying that I enjoyed about a good hour of watching my friends finish — Cecily came in at 1:33, Bernard in 1:49, and Cecile in 1:56 — and hanging out on the lawn of the Washington Monument as we waited for the 10am Award Ceremony.

But my stomach couldn’t hold out.  At 9:45am I cried Mercy! and arranged to have my award mailed to me.  I was in agony.  I couldn’t make it another 15 minutes.  The agony would continue for several more hours, at which point, rolling around on the floor, I determined that I wasn’t going to make my flight to Mexico City that evening.  I rescheduled to fly out the next day, rescheduled my Monday seminar and dinners as best I could, and tried my best to horse-whisper the stomach back to normalcy.  The agony abated after a couple hours, even if the stomach didn’t stop erupting (and bleeding).

The stomach stuff is unfortunate, but I also have to spin the positive: I was able to run a sub-1:20 half on a bum stomach, and I was able to keep my cool and not let the bowels totally derail me.  With the help of my little Strava I’ve been putting in consistent 50-mile weeks for 8 weeks now, the most consistent training I’ve ever done.  I’m hoping that my upcoming travel to Mexico and Taiwan doesn’t undo everything.  And that some day my stomach decides to chill the #%@ out and let me run~.

 

‘A newt!!’

We were a mere quarter mile into the 2015 Big Schloss 50k and I was already stopping for critters.  I scooped the poor little guy off of the trail, sparing him from the onslaught of stomping hokas, and displaying him to anyone running by who would glance.  Finally I found a safe spot for him (or her — I’m not very good at sexing newts) and re-entered the congo line of runners.  But by this time Aaron and I were way in the back, behind the lady donning an ankle-length rain slicker (not the garment of choice for anyone hoping to move their legs quickly).  But that was fine.  The Big Schloss is the kind of event where a minority of folks might imagine it’s a ‘race’ but most of us are just out there for the fun of it.  Which, on a soggy day with rain drilling us for long stretches, meant lots of amphibians on the trail — mostly frogs (or toads — I’m barely more able to differentiate frogs and toads than I am at sexing newts).  For some (likely unrelated) reason it also meant lots of poops.  I didn’t have a great stomach day.  Not terrible: no puking at least.  But every poop was preceded by some serious warning toots that burned poor Aaron’s nostrils.  We considered that if I could somehow weaponize them and use them against my competition I’d be unbeatable.  But even my death poops and the driving rain couldn’t detract from the singular joy of running with the AirBear.  After 10 days in West Virginia that spanned Labor Day weekend, I’ve had a splendidly long run of Aaron tolerating trots with me.

‘Bear, we will speed down the hills as fast as we like.’  I enumerated our fun run plan: ‘And then we will mosey up the hills and be lazy bears.  Okay?’

Aaron was amenable to the plan.  We ran down the wet rocks a little faster than he would have otherwise.  And we moseyed up the hills a little slower than he would have otherwise.  And we took a few more poop breaks than he would have.  But we enjoyed the warm rain and splashy puddles.  And the surreal ‘snowscape’ views of thick white clouds beneath the Schloss outcrop.  And the eerie mist atop the ridge.

And I’m finally starting to get my downhill mojo back.  My left foot injuries made my downhill running so very sad for so very long.  But Sean had told me about a luscious 3-mile descent down to AS#2, and in his honor I made Aaron fly down it with me.  The quick downhills were not kind on my belly (Aaron is convinced I need to learn how to use my abdominal muscles to hold my belly in better on the descents).  But it sure was worth it.

The night before the Schloss, Sean (who was technically a co-RD for this race but had to coach a high school XC meet and was MIA) had lamented something  about the rain interfering with the after-party.  For some reason the phrase ‘after-party’ had gotten stuck in my head, and for the second half of the run I could not get R Kelly out of my head:

Then after the show, it’s the after party
And after the party, it’s the hotel lobby
Yeah, around about four you gotta clear the lobby
Then take it to ya room and freak somebody

We had to tweak the song a little for Schloss:

Then after the run, it’s the after party

After the party, it’s the Lost River lobby

Where the food is great but the service is shoddy

But everyone wins ’cause there’s an actual potty.

Often Aaron and I scurry home after runs.  Aaron likes his naps.  I worry about whether the kitty is hungry.  But this time the after party lived up to its hype, with funny people and stories.  Joe getting pushed on his bike to work by a German guy when his derailer fell off.  Keith running the last stretch with his balls out (either because chafing or just because he wanted his boys to get some fresh air — your guess as much as mine).  And the highlight being the amazing present Jack gave us in remembrance of our awesome Teton Crest run.