Author: martha

I had completely forgotten how to run a marathon.

The old me had a very simple recipe for running a marathon:

1. Do the least possible training without blowing all plausibility of finishing a marathon. This essentially amounts to at least one training run over 13 miles.
2. On the morning of the race, pile your heart, your soul, and your guts into a little dish. Slide it across the table as a small offering to the running gods.
3. During the race, don’t wear a watch. Don’t look at clocks. The gods don’t care what your time is. They care about the contents of that little dish. And that you promised to let the race strip you bare, to leave nothing for yourself. You deserve nothing, you earn nothing, you possess nothing.

Motherhood is transformative — physically, behaviorally, and emotionally — and I’m still trying to figure out what person came out on the other side.

Motherhood is the least rebellious thing a woman in her 30s can do. So I figured I might as well go with the flow and try a conventional marathon. I trained. I wore a watch. I went to the track. I even threw in a long run on roads. Well, it was mostly on roads. I set a goal. A concrete goal. I wanted to podium (top-3). I thought I had prepped for the race of my life.

The racing gods laughed in my face.

First, they took away my legs. Marathon pro tip: don’t start PT for an Achilles injury one week before the race. One week is just enough time to murder your calves (the PT had me doing hundreds of calf raises up until the day before the race). And not nearly enough time to see benefit. My calves felt like bricks at Mile 1. I spent a good portion of the race wondering Why, PT Tim? Why did you do this to me?

Then they took away my heart. I can’t blame my race on the World Series. But the timing couldn’t have been worse. After so many late nights watching playoffs, the Nats had to go and blow three straight losses at home in the World Series and my spirits had been deposited somewhere in the gutter.

For extra sparkle, they through in some torrential rain storms. Haine’s Point was a lake.

It could have gone worse. I hung in there and finished in 3:06, 12th female. I smiled and waved every time I saw Aaron and tried to stay positive. But I haven’t had a marathon race go over three hours since 2006. Aaron had to wrestle my hand away from my Garmin when I tried to delete the data at the end. I wanted to erase every trace of the dismal day.

Aaron and I have dropped our fair share of race bombs in 2019. Aaron’s had two 100 mile DNFs. I lost at Highland Sky where I hold the CR. We’ve hit so many shanks into the bushes this year Trevor refuses to go golfing with us.

Of course, bombs happen. Ultras, being longer, can be more forgiving. You can be back with Mario and the horses at the end of Western States, take a little nap, and find yourself enjoying a nice second wind. Ultras can also be less forgiving. Ask Daniel Bedell and his burned sticks at Fat Dog. Marathons, I’m afraid, are always less forgiving.

But I was particularly low about the Marine Corps result. It wasn’t just the time. I felt like I had lost my way as a runner. I understand that as a mom I have to be more domestic, more organized, more efficient. But that doesn’t have to transfer to running.

Just as I have to decide which parts of traditional motherhood suit me, I also have been going through a process of figuring out which bits of Bob are worth preserving. Sometimes I’m mortified by similarities. Other times, I realize I miss the person who knew better than anyone else how to enjoy a good burger.

The last time I ran the Marine Corps marathon, my dad was standing on the Mall cheering for me. After the race he defied all traffic advisories to scoop me up along Lee Highway in his green Toyota convertible. Roof down. He whisked me back to DC to celebrate a marathon in the only proper way: giant juicy burgers at Old Ebbitt Grill. He was so excited he couldn’t help but blab on to all the hostesses and wait staff that his daughter had just finished 5th in the Marine Corps Marathon. I was mortified. And touched.

After Marine Corps I realize I will always be a fringe runner with different running gods. Gods that care little about my work ethic or whether I hit goals. Gods that seem to prefer events like the Trilogy, the Race for the Birds, and the Beer Mile. And are pleased when I stop for kinglets and wrens. Gods that let you know that you can technically win a race by crossing the line first, but still not win at all in their books. Because the most important part of racing is the human part.

Lesson 1. It’s good to know the RD.

I got some solid intel from Katie the night before the Race for the Hills Half Marathon, Day 3 of the West Virginia Trilogy series. I’d expected to have a pretty easy win, given that most of the runners had already been worn down by Day 1 50k and Day 2 50M. But the theme of 2019 is that every expectation I have is dead wrong. A group of road runners from Pittsburgh had just come to town. I knew Kate from the North Fork Trail FKT in May, a sub-3 hour marathoner. But apparently Laura was an Olympic Trials qualifier.

Lesson 2. Road speed is not the same as trail speed.

I’m not much of an ultra runner, but I’m tough to beat on short and mid-distance trail races. Over the last decade I’ve run at least 10 trail races in the 10-13 mile range and haven’t lost yet: Women’s Half (6 times), Dam Half (PA), Squirrelly Tail (PA)), EX2 Backyard Burn (2 times). I’m sure one of these days I’ve have a rough day or come across someone with a better combination of road and trail speed.

But not yet.

I couldn’t decide if the Pittsburgh gang was going to win. They looked awfully quick in their little singlets and arm warmers. And my Achilles had been bothering me, which bode poorly on a tough course that ends with a steep mile climb up ‘cardiac hill’.

Laura and I ran neck-and-neck for the first half of the race. But her little yelps confirmed my suspicion that she didn’t run trails much. I got rolling in the middle, thanks to some monster downhills and well-placed cow barricades that were fun to jump over (Achilles be damned). In the end, I won by a mere 2 minutes. It was a stellar women’s field, thanks to all the Pittsburgh gals, and the top three women finished 4-5-6 overall, all under the prior CR.

Trevor and I spent a good bit of the Trilogy after-party wondering out loud why Keith has never done Trilogy. We figured if we could explain just Keith, we could get at why as a whole the VHTRC has a blind spot for what is truly the premier trail running event of the fall in the mid-Atlantic region. Although maybe it’s a good thing that Trilogy remains a best-kept secret.

Run For It 5k – September 28, 2019 – Davis, WV

I told Katie at the start of the race that my goal this year was to not piss myself. This was a reference to last year’s race, where I was just getting back into running in September after giving birth to Bjorn in July, and the muscles down there were still not fully recovered. In order to win the race I had to accept a voluminous stream of urine leaking down my leg. Oh, the things they don’t tell you about motherhood!

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Run For It has become a Nelson-Schwartzbard family tradition, with Aaron’s mom running the 5k with us and my mom and Aaron’s dad taking Bjorn in the stroller in the 2k fun run. With my overall female win, Aaron’s masters win, and a bunch of age group awards, we brought in over $2,000 for the Heart of the Highlands trail system.

What really makes Run For It special that it attracts the whole town of Davis. Young and old, everyone participates, even if it’s the only race they complete all year. Because everyone’s running for their local community — schools, libraries, animal shelters. You have a lot of kids finishing their first race ever. It’s mayhem, but it’s fun!

VHTRC Women’s Half Marathon

September 7, 2019

Bull Run Regional Park, VA

I have a confession: I should not have run the Women’s Half this year. The Women’s Half is such a special event. It deserves better than a half-alive marmot. Even if I knew I could cross the line first. It takes more than that to win.

I had good intentions:

1. The WHM is one of my all-time favorite races. Where else do you get to take tequila shots and runs with giant stuffed bears?
2. As a women-only race, where better to celebrate being a new mom who’s still lacing up, no matter how sleep-deprived.
3. The image of all the new WUSsies piled into the baby thunderdome was pretty irresistible.

But I have never felt so physically ill at a race. That includes running the Boston Marathon with bronchitis. That includes running the Alexandria Turkey Trot with severe morning sickness. There is something about eastbound jet lag from Asia that just makes you want to crawl in a hole and die.

There are actually biochemical explanations for why jet lag following eastward travel is so much worse than westward travel. Physicists have shown that the cells in the brain that regulate circadian rhythms respond differently based on the direction of travel. The flight schedules make it even worse, with flights from Asia arriving in the morning in the United States, making it impossible to resist a massive daytime snooze.

Sprinkle a little eastbound Asian jet lag on top of the baseline sleep deprivation a new mom gets in her baby’s first year, and you get someone who’s not likely to enjoy running a half marathon.

I did try to show up. I did my best to race well, and managed to eke out a win even if the time was a bit shabby. I snuggled with Whitehouse Tom’s adorable Australian shepherd puppy at the finish line until my head stopped spinning and I got enough good vibes to no longer be in danger of tossing water on people (sorry, Keith!).

I did get to see all the adorable WUS babies: Knute and Skye and Cora. And even if they’re not quite old enough to interact with each other, it still gives my heart a squeeze to see them all in one place.

But, I solemnly swear to myself, I will never again underestimate the blow of eastbound Asian jet lag. And honestly, I have to admit that I can’t do it all the way I did pre-baby. I’m so accustomed to grinding my way through anything, but I have to go easier on myself, and know that being physically capable of crossing a line first is not the same as being the winner.

Today, DC has enough trail races and group runs to saturate a calendar. But it wasn’t that long ago that it was awfully lonely to be a trail runner in the District. Beyond a handful of events in Virginia run by Happy Trails, DC was a big black hole for organized trail running during the mid-2000s.

Enter Fairy Godmother. (Clarification: a younger, more athletic ultra-running godmother…). About a decade ago, Kerry opened the doors of her 1920s historic rowhouse to ultra runners. Located in one of DC’s poshest and most centrally located neighborhoods, steps from the Woodley Park – Adams Morgan metro station and all its restaurants and shops. As well as a ten-minute trot in either direction to the two major arteries of DC’s woodland trail networks: Rock Creek Park and Glover Archibald. You could pretend to be adulting as an urban professional, but really just go Peter Pan it as a dirt-bag trail runner with a collection of stinky running shoes in the hallway and a complete inability to empty a dishwasher.

No, there weren’t very strict criteria for getting a room in what would affectionately become known as the Woodley Ultra Society (WUS) house. After all, Sean and Keith were early tenants. So apparently you didn’t need to know how to dump trash on Wednesday Trash Night. Or even report that your toilet had been broken for three weeks.

No, all you had to do was be a full-throated ultramarathon trail runner. And by that measure, Sean and Keith were highly qualified. Keith once ran three 100-mile races in the span of three weeks. Sean was ultra stud enough to get his face smiling back at you from New Balance tags.

I myself never lived in the WUS house. Part of me was tempted. What could be more fun than partying with runners every day? Always having someone around to go on a woodland adventure with?

But I was wary of gorging on the ultra trail running scene. Running 100 miles is intensely physically demanding. And while many can do it in a healthy, self-limiting way, the rate of injury and burnout is high. Is there are part of me that regrets that I didn’t live out my young, free, single days going all-in on trail running? Sure. But it was a highly conscious decision. And living two blocks away from the WUS house, it was still an awful lot of fun to dip my toe in from time to time.

Photo Gallery

I. Fast

II. Fun

III. Furious