I was going to let my calves write this post, but they've been too busy screaming at me all day. Plus, they're horrible typists.
My calves (and my quads, and my shins, and my hammies) are mad at me because yesterday I forced them to run their seventh Philadelphia Distance Run half-marathon.
For those of you who usually avoid my running-related posts (and are now kicking yourselves for accidentally reading this one), PDR acts as my last long training run before my big race, the Long Beach Island 18 Mile Run. PDR comes three weeks before that race, and it's at the PDR finish line that my LBI18 taper begins. Also, after months of solitary runs, PDR gets me back into distance-racing mode.
It's tough to see PDR as just another training run - it's huge (13,000 runners), it's a great and varied course (business district, museum district, Fairmount Park), and I love running in the city. So while my usual long-distance training runs are run at close to my intended LBI18 pace, I always step it up a little bit at PDR, despite my better judgment. I told myself to be happy with anything under an 8:45 minute/mile pace, but I was really hoping for 8-minute miles.
After an overcast week the sun decided to show itself on Sunday, bringing higher temperatures with it. The fact that PDR starts two hours further into the day than my usual long runs meant it was going to be a long morning. I was sweating up a storm before I was even through the first two miles (both of which were run straight into the sun’s rays).
Still, I was doing all right, keeping around that 8-minute pace though the first seven miles. Mile 8 was a little slower (due to both my drinking of some water and my watering of some trees) and mile 9 was slower still, though I didn't stop during it.
By the time I made it to mile 10, where I would have my second power gel break, I felt completely defeated. From past experiences I knew that the rest of my race would demand more and more walk breaks. As if sore muscles aren’t bad enough, this is the moment that my mental state often falls apart, too. I'm tired, I'm disappointed, I'm pissed, and, most of all, I'm worried that the same falling apart thing will happen at LBI.
That last part is good for a half-mile or so of panic. My main goal for LBI - even more than a decent finishing time - is to run a strong and well-paced race. To finish happy (not necessarily pain-free, but happy - that "tired, but it's a good tired" feeling). The awful thought that I might break down at LBI is never completely out of my mind during all those pre-race long runs. My two marathons and my first two 18-milers ended ugly, and it kind of sort of takes all the fun out of doing the races.
It drives me crazy that my brain can sabotage my long runs and races almost as much as my overworked calves can. What calms me back down again is that over the years I've (for the most part) learned to fight through these home-stretch doubts.
So, anyway, back to Sunday. I ended up finishing less than four minutes off my goal, and well within my acceptable training pace. I was mad during those last few miles, but even before I crossed the finish line I had decided that I my race performance was just fine. I just needed to remind myself that training for a long, even-paced 18-miler means that I’m probably not going to be fully prepared for a half-marathon run at a much faster pace.
My running log has a page for race results, with space for a short comment. When I put this race into my log this morning, I wrote, "sunny, hot, fell apart at mile 10." Since it was just last year that I ran my best LBI18 ever - no unscheduled walk-breaks, no panic, a nice even pace - I decided to see what I wrote after last year's PDR. Here's what that entry said: "sunny, hot, fell apart after mile 9."
Hmmm. Maybe I really can stop worrying about how I'll do at LBI this year?
Nah.
Onward to taper time!