I Survived!

And not only did I survive, I reached my goal: finish the marathon in less than 5 hours without walking. I finished in 4:55.23 and only walked through water stations. I don’t think that counts as walking because I never mastered the art of drinking from a cup on the move. Besides, everyone else walks through water stations when you are as slow as I am so it would have been practically impossible for me to run around thousands of people who come to a screeching halt for Mountain Blast Powerade. But I digress.

Overall, the weekend was so much fun. Friday morning my friends Wylie, John, Kelly, Mark, and Melissa all flew to Reagan in Washington, DC. Friday afternoon we picked up our race packets and bib numbers and wandered around in the expo for a while. Then the whole group of us went out to dinner at Otello for some yummy pasta and carb-loading.

Wylie and I spent the weekend at Wylie’s friends Ben and Sarah’s apartment. Saturday we relaxed and stayed off our feet as much as possible. The guys watched a football game, I read a magazine and we played a game of Trivial Pursuit. We cooked some pasta for dinner. (By the way, now that the marathon is over, I’m not eating pasta again for a while!) Saturday night we all tried to go to sleep early but a high-speed-chase-car-jacking outside the window provided us a little entertainment.

Marathon Day (Sunday) we all got up at about 6:00am, I suited up in spandex, a long sleeved shirt and sweats, iPod, and crazy gooey carb supplements. We walked to the subway and got off the train at the Pentagon. From there, we had to walk to the starting line about a mile away. I remember thinking about how ridiculous it was that this mile didn’t count towards the 26.2 miles we actually had to run.

The starting line was just outside of Arlington National Cemetery. The process of starting a marathon can be best described as one long line. I left Wylie at the bag check line and headed for the port-o-potties line. I waited for about 20 minutes to go to the bathroom. During the singing of the national anthem I as in the port-o-potty. I hoped that this was not some kind of indication of how the rest of the afternoon was going to go.

At 7:50 I made my way through some of the 30,000 runners to the flag where the people who planned to finish the marathon in about 4:30-5:00 hours waited for the starting gun. At exactly 8:00am (the marines are punctual) the howitzer fired and we were off! Well, someone was off, back were I was, we started shuffling forward towards the starting line. I fell into step with a young woman about my age. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I told her “Good luck.” She exclaimed, “You too! I have been trying to run this for three years... and I just got back from Iraq!” I thought about my path to the marathon, how I got up so early in the morning to either run before my meetings, my classes, or before it got too hot. I remembered trying to find new running trails because if I ran the Boulder Creek Path one more time... I remembered my anxiety before long runs I didn’t know if I could get through, and all the different muscle aches, pains, and abnormalities and I realized that these things are not insignificant, but they were compared to what this young woman could have been doing for the last several months. She and I crossed the starting line together, wished each other well and I picked up my pace and jogged away from her.

The crowd was so thick over the first 4 miles that I didn’t even see the mile markers. Fortunately, I wasn’t looking for them yet. I think it would have been a bad sign if I cared about where I was so early in the race. I was also highly amused by the clothes being ejected from within the mob. We would all be bobbing along in a big mass and suddenly a pair of pants would come shooting out of the crowd and onto the sidewalk. A few steps later a long sleeved shirt would shoot out. Not to be left out, I moved closer to the edge of the swell of runners and waited for a break in the spectators. Then, I launched my long sleeved t-shirt over the four rows of runners that separated me from the sidewalk. Unfortunately, I didn’t time this right and ended up hitting a very surprised middle-aged lady right in the face. I cringed and shouted, “sorry!!” but I’m not sure if she heard of me. In my head, I promised to think of her in a few hours when I assumed I would be in a lot of pain.

I was surprised at how quickly the first eight miles flew by. According to the computer chip on my shoe, I ran them very slowly but they seemed to go by quickly. When I am running, I often think about how a year and a half ago that I was training to run a 10K (6.2 miles). I smiled to myself about how I never thought I would be able to tackle this kind of challenge.

I crossed the 13.1-mile mark (half way point) and figured it was time for a short break. I spotted a bathroom, pulled over, did a little stretching and splashed water on my face before setting off again. I was pleased with how I felt at this point in the race, but this was the first time that I realized how far I had left to go.

Around mile 15 or 16 I was starting to get uncomfortable. I did most of my training on dirt trails and I was starting to feel the constant pounding of the pavement in my knees. About this time, I also saw someone with a sign that read, “Way to go Lindsay! We love you!” I have no idea who these people were, but since they spelled my name right, I figured they were there to support and cheer me on. I waved at them. They gave me a confused look but they still waved back. I imagined that they were trying to figure out if I was the Lindsay they were looking for since most of the people running with me at the time looks like they had been stuffed into the washing machine for about 3 hours.

The lowest point of the race was just past mile 20. My longest run until that Sunday was (only) 20.5 miles and the unfamiliarity of this uncharted territory unnerved me. Just before this mile marker we finished our lap of the national mall and passed in front of the capital building. After mile 20 the course took us back from DC to Arlington, VA. Up until this point, the crowds lining the race course had been so thick and wonderful there were points where I was trying to listen to my iPod and I couldn’t hear the music over their cheering. I couldn’t help but think about the fact that this was an entirely different kind of marathon for these folks. Over 70,000 friends and family members filled the course, many of them tracking their runners on GPS and moving from place to place on the course to see their runners several times. This created a very strange dejavu effect for me as I kept seeing somewhat familiar people holding very familiar signs several times.

Anyway, around mile 20 we started across the bridge back to Arlington and the crowds disappeared. The bridge was totally empty except for us runners, who were mostly walking by then, many of them limping or carefully stretching every couple of steps. I moved slowly past these tired, sweaty people for the length of the bridge which seemed to go on forever but was really only about a mile and a half.

At one point about mile 22 I thought about crying. My knees ached and I had developed an ache in my right hip. I was tired, tired of running, tired of eating GU, tired of drinking Powerade, and tired of jogging through these stumbling people. The thing was, I was also thirsty. At this moment I put more thought into whether or not to cry then I ever have before. “Would my tears dehydrate me?” I wondered. “Will they be blue like commercials… wait, no that’s Gatorade… I wonder if Powerade does that too…” This line of thinking went on for a while.

After we finally got across the bridge we dipped down into Crystal City. The crowds thickened and the street narrowed. A fraternity was holding a sign saying, “you’ve run 23 miles, have a drink!” while they handed out Dixie cups of beer. A friend of mine told me that beer at mile 23 was actually a fantastic idea no matter how counter-intuitive that was. She said that it provides great carbs and dulls the pain just enough. The frat boys were on the other side of the street though and I couldn’t muster the energy to cross over several runners to get there. I also thought that by that point, if I tried to change my pace, I would just tip over.

I can’t explain what happened when I hit mile 25. It might have been the fact that I was so close and just wanted to have the whole thing over with, it could have been the crowd cheering us on, it could have been the fact that other runners were running again and I’m ridiculously competitive, but I really picked up my pace. I started passing people on the right and the left. I kept looking for the mile 26 sign, and then for the finish line.

Finally, there on the left, the arch that marked the finish line appeared at the top of a very steep hill. At that moment I forgot about how much my knees hurt. I forgot about the point I wanted to cry. I forgot about my friends who had finished more than an hour before me and I started running as fast as I could (which I’m sure by that point was a very slow 10-minute mile). Nevertheless, not a single person passed me after I spotted the finish.

I crossed the line at 4:55.27. A marine wrapped a space blanket around my shoulders and said, “congratulations, ma’am, you did great.” Another Marine hung a medal around my neck, smiled at me and said something about deserving this medal to honor the incredible effort. A third marine said, “you have just been running for 5 hours, how do you feel.” I told him that I was tired and asked where the beer tent was (I was meeting my friends there). He pointed and gave me some directions. I asked if he would carry me. He smiled and suggested I continue to walk for a little while.

Just then, Wylie called, “Congratulations Brust! You just ran a marathon! I’m in line at Chipotle, do you want a burrito?” I told him that I wasn’t ready to eat quite yet, but thanks.

That night, I felt differently, my friends and I went out to dinner. We had all met our goal. Wylie finished in less than four hours, Ben qualified for Boston by running the marathon in 3:10. Ben was in the roughest shape. He didn’t really eat or drink enough during the marathon, but he was able to keep up with his pace group. They told me about how Ben crossed the finish line, involuntarily wet himself (apparently, it’s very common), and took himself to the medical tent where he drank three bottles of Powerade and ate a bag of pretzels.

I tried to be healthy at dinner, afterall, I figured I should appropriately take care of my body. I ordered a big salad. I ate the whole thing. Not only was I not full, I was still hungry. I ordered sweet potato chips for the table and ate all my friend’s fries. I also ordered another beer. That night, I slept better than I remember sleeping in months.

So, the tale of my first marathon is behind me, officially. Forgive me for a moment while I get a little mushy. Crossing that finish line gave me the biggest sense of accomplishment that I have ever had. If I have to run for five months, fly half way across the country, and run for almost five hours to get that feeling again, I will do it. Happily.

Thank you for supporting me, for donating to the American Heart Association for Andy Redman, whose spirit I had in mind throughout the whole race, and for reading this blog. While I have hung up the running shoes for the last week and a half, I don’t think they will stay in the closet long. So, if you are thinking about doing a marathon, or just looking for someone to go for a run with, please give me a call. I'll go for a run with you.

Marathon Weekend is Here

I'm leaving for Washington D.C. in the morning. Apparently, the cold I caught about two weeks ago is coming with me. I tried to talk it into going away but it promptly refused, taking up residence in my sinuses. It has only been bothering me about the first couple of miles of every run but usually gives up after I try to Farmer Blow it out. For those of you not from the Midwest, a Farmer Blow is a technique in which you blow your nose without tissues by plugging one nostril and blowing in a quick little burst. Usually, the snot shoots out, leaving me able to breath. This technique works well on sparsely populated trails but I have a feeling that the other people running the marathon with me will not think this method charming.

Snot or not, I have now run a total of 378 miles preparing for Sunday. That's is the distance from Boulder to... well... I don't know, but it's really far. I just have the on Sunday to go.

Now it's time for me to congratulate you, dear friends, family, and associates. While my goal of running 26.2 miles is still in front of me I am proud to say that we have already raised $1295 for the American Heart Association. If you are still interested in donating, you may do by going to this website: http://honor.americanheart.org/site/TRC/Events/General?pg=feditor&fr_id=1030&px=1111901.

Some people have had trouble with this process. If you do, you can email me at Lindsay.Brust@gmail.com and I would be happy to send you different instructions.

I will try to keep you up-to-date with the happenings of the weekend. If I can't get to a computer over the weekend, I will definitely write an update when I get back to Colorado. I'll need something to do while I wait for my legs to recover. :)

Certain Death if Entered

I completed my 20-mile run about a week and a half ago, which is the longest run I have to do before the marathon, which is now in… about a week and a half! I have always been a little confused about why training programs never take you the full race distance you are training for. I think when I trained for my first 10K (6.2 miles) I only “got up to” 5-mile runs. I put “got up to” in quotes because while I used to dread them, these 5-mile runs are now the ones I look forward to – the shortest runs of the week!

Anyway, I consulted one of my marathon training websites for the answer as to why I didn’t run the whole 26.2 before race day. Apparently, if you train well for the first 20 miles the “excitement of race day” will carry you the additional 6.2 miles. I put “the excitement of race day” in quotes because I don’t think I’ve ever been excited enough about anything to give me the energy to run 6.2 miles.

For my 20-mile run I said good-bye to Jason about 6:30am, who rolled over and went back to sleep with instructions to bring me reinforcements, or at least Powerade and food, at about 8am. I ran to the reservoir about 4 miles away from home, and ran the trail around it twice before running home.

The first time I had this idea to run around the reservoir was about a month ago. The problem was, as it so often is in Boulder, I didn’t know which trail to take. Fortunately, there are so many runners out there in the morning I just figured I would keep asking people for directions. On that run, a group of guys passed me and I took off my head phones to ask for directions. One of the guys pulled up beside me, and gave me the following instructions: “go over this hill, through the parking lot on the right and onto a trail. From there, just keep turning right, oh, and don’t mind the sign that says, “Certain Death if Entered.” I almost fell down. He laughed and said, “I’m serious, just keep going and don’t worry about it.” I waited for him to add something like, “…and don’t mind that large hungry looking mountain lion that’s been following you either,” but he didn’t. He just jogged off to catch up with the other guys.

I considered a different running route, but the only other trail I knew of in the area had a big hill, the size of a mountain on it. I was surprised the one time I stumbled to the top that there wasn’t snow on it. I figured I would rather take on certain death than to do it again.

It turns out that the sign is there and refers to the canal, that has so much fencing around it and a nice, safe little bridge across it that I couldn’t have gotten into it even if I wanted to die 7 miles into that particular 18-mile run.

I passed the sign twice on my 20-mile run. My early morning, pre-dawn jog to the reservoir was almost invigorating, on my first lap around the res I felt good, motivated by Jason waiting in the parking lot with reserves of Powerade and shot blocks. He got out of the car as I approached, I touched my toes, he refilled my water bottles that I wear on a big super cool fanny pack thing around my waist. Sleepily, he asked me how it was going, and I replied, “really well – I’m feeling great,” with more energy than I ever thought I would have after running about 10 miles.

There is a little red walking path about ¾ of a mile from my house that I frequent for my short runs. The path runs through the pretty little neighborhoods of North Boulder where families walking their dogs and kids playing in their yards distract me and the time on my short 4 and 5 mile runs just flies by. The path runs east and west, so at the beginning of my runs, when I’m going west, it’s all up hill for the first 2 miles, then I get to turn around and come back.

I found myself at the beginning of this path, ¾ of a mile away from home, with 2.5 miles to go. I wasn’t feeling as good 17.5 miles into the run as I had when I met Jason. My hips were really starting to hurt, which was a surprise because I don’t think my hips have ever hurt before, unless I ran into the pointy edge on the dresser coming out of the closet. Regardless, I turned off the ever-so-tempting way home and started up the little red path.

Up to that point, I think my body assumed that given the opportunity to cut a 20-mile run short and head home after 17.5 miles, I was smart enough to take it. After all, if the excitement of race day is suppose to carry me 6.2 miles, what’s another 2.5? After realizing that I actually intended to run the whole 20, even if it meant a ridiculous detour, my body tried to reject me. My hips hurt so bad I thought they were going to eject my legs, the backs of my knees burned, my ankles ached and my shoulders slumped.

I plodded along at a pace barely a jog, looking at my feet and muttering to myself. “You’re almost there,” I tried lying to myself, my body swore at me, “okay, you’re right,” I tried to laugh, “but you can turn around and go downhill soon.” My body swore at me again. I groaned. At this point, I had been running about 3.5 hours. It was 10am and families were out on their morning walks. Little old couples out on their morning walks stared at me, children pointed, dogs barked. Okay, I’m being overly dramatic, I’m sure no one even really noticed the soon-to-be-marathoner that passed them at a pace of a snail. I wanted to say to them, “I’m on mile 18! Congratulate me!” or “I’ve been running for 3.5 hours, what have you done this morning?” But I quickly realized I didn’t have the energy to say anything loud enough to be heard anyway.

I felt better when I turned around to go back downhill. I didn’t have to talk to myself anymore. I straightened out my back and lifted my head. I was finally almost there! My iPod announced in my ear, “Congratulations, you have met your goal of 20-miles.” I exhaled and thanked Paula Radcliffe, the voice on my iPod and the world marathon record holder.

Love the One You're With

My knees started hurting a little after runs a couple of weeks ago, so I did what any girl with an ache of pretty much any kind will do -- I went shoe shopping. My shoes have been extremely good to me, so I figured I would just pick up a new pair of them. Unfortunately, the store was out of them due to back-to-school or the Boulder Marathon this weekend, or the fact that they are awesome. I forget which.

The tall, skinny, fast looking shoe guy studied my feet for a minute and asked if I would like to try something else. He said that my usual shoe provides a lot of support that I don't really need because I don't prorate or something like that. (Prorate is not the right word)

He fitted me into a very fast looking, soft, comfortable shoe that felt really good on my foot, but not in my wallet. I have come to accept the fact that a decent running shoe is going to cost me about $100, but I usually try to keep it under $100. This one was not. Regardless, the shoes came home with me, and I was filled with a hope that these would be the shoes I would run the marathon in, and then ceremoniously hang up after the marathon so I could do something else for a while.

It was probably not a good idea that my first run in the new shoes was a 12 miler. I started getting a blister about mile 6, shin splints about mile 9, and a very bad attitude towards the shoes at mile 10. Since the 12 miler, I have also taken the shoes on a 4 mile run and an 8 mile run. Admittedly, they are probably not as horrible as I had come to believe. They are soft and comfortable. However, a couple of days ago, I stopped by the running store and picked up another pair of my usual shoes and learned a very valuable lesson -- if something is working for you, love the one you're with.

That Rash is From What?

This post comes with a disclaimer: if it makes you really uncomfortable to read about my thighs, please turn back now. Go make yourself a sandwich, or watch some TV. Check back after a few days after I've updated the blog again.

As previously stated in this blog, I rarely do anything without reading a book about it first. During my reading about running I ran across several "common" side affects of running more miles that make sense unless you are being chased by mountain lions or bears... or chasing after someone dressed as a mountain lion or a bear.

I read about toenails turning black and falling off, achy knees, sore IT bands, pulled hamstrings, and stiff ankles. I also read about some well endowed women getting rashes from their sports bra or developing back problems. I had not read about the rash that developed on the insides of both of my thighs. Naturally, I assumed that due to the location of the rash, it was being caused by the liner of my running shorts rubbing against me. So, I spent a couple of very long extremely uncomfortable runs trying to adjust my liner on the move. Cars, bikers, and other runners would whiz by me, my hands either down my shorts or up from the bottom trying to put my liner in a place it didn't rub my thighs. People stared. I considered trying to explain to the slower-moving starers, but figured that might only make me look more guilty. Plus, after 10 miles running with a rash, I didn't care what they were thinking.

While chatting with the owner of Running Wild, a running store in Iowa City, I happened to mention my rash and proceeded to gripe about not being able to find a pair of shorts that do not rub me.

He smiled knowing, and said, "oh, that's not your liner, that's your thighs rubbing together when you run."

"But my thighs aren't big! We just went shopping and I had to buy smaller sizes." I protested.

"Don't worry," he smiled, "everyone's thighs rub together when they run," and he hopped up and picked up a pair of spandex shorts that mercifully (for everyone else on the road) had a skirt attached over them. He handed it to me and said, "here, this should solve your problem."

I started playing soccer when I was about 10 years old. I'm not saying, after playing for 17 years, that I am a good soccer player, I'm saying that my legs have muscles in them. I estimate about 80% of my body weight is probably in my thighs. So, at the mention of them rubbing together while running, I immediately used this rational in my head rather than actually picture the event happening. (On a side note, my mom, who was shopping with me, thought this was all very amusing)

Back in Colorado, I went for a 7 mile run and the rash is back, just a little lower. It turns out that so much of my thighs rub together when I run that I need longer shorts. I started complaining about my situation to my boyfriend, "you see," I explained, "I have this rash, and at first I thought it was the liner of my shorts rubbing against me when I run..."

"...but it's really your thighs rubbing together." he finished for me. I froze. It's one thing to have some running store guy telling me my thighs are huge and another thing all together to have my boyfriend do it.

He saw the look on my face and started laughing, then explained that it would be gross if my thighs didn't rub together because they would be way too skinny. So, this afternoon my thighs and I are going shopping for a longer pair of shorts.

(That picture? A barn I might have run by in Iowa. The barns all look the same after 2 hours of plodding along)

Saying Hello to Muscles

In addition to cross training, I also used my week in Costa Rica to acclimate to the humidity I would experience the following week while visiting my family in Iowa. If you have ever been to Iowa in the summer, you will understand. It’s so humid that you just feel kind of sticky most of the time.

Running in Iowa is both easier and harder. Since I’m at such a much lower altitude, breathing is a lot easier. In fact, I never get out of breath, which is saying something considering I’m usually so out of breath you would think I was hyperventilating. Conversely, the air can be so thick I’m not sure whether I’m running or I should be swimming. I’m soaked when I get home and it’s not from sweat.

My mom figured the best way to contribute to my newest crazy endeavor is by doing what she does best. She took me shopping. I almost never shop unless I’m with my mom so I probably haven’t done any serious shopping since last Christmas.

We went to the mall and I headed straight towards my favorite store. I started scooping up tops, shorts, a dress and a couple of skirts and headed for the dressing room. Soon Mom came to check on me. “How does everything look in there?” She exclaimed from the door of the dressing rooms, listening for my voice to hone in on what room I was in.

Even though I’m 27 years old I always come out of the dressing room and study mom’s face for her honest opinion when I ask things like, “Does this shirt make me look like I have the shoulders of a football player?” or “Do I look transparent in this color?” or “Would it work to wear this as a shirt rather than a skirt?”

This time I replied from behind the door, “I think this is too big…”

“Which one?” Mom readies herself to fetch a smaller size of my garment of choice.

“All of them…” I said, wondering what happened. I had scooped up all my usual sizes. Sizes I had worn for years, whether I should have moved up a size or not.

I opened the door to search Mom’s face for confirmation. “Oh yeah, you are swimming in that. Hold on, I’ll get you a smaller size… in everything,” and she was off.

Under the florescent lights of the dressing room, I smiled at myself in the mirror, and welcomed the lines on the sides of my stomach that outlined, very lightly, the very hint of some abdominal muscles. I guess running over 30 miles a week does earn me some new friends: muscles.

Surfing Counts as Cross Training, Right?

I spent all last week cross training (ahem, learning to surf, cough, drinking Pina Coladas) in Costa Rica. I had several goals for my week of cross training:
1. Be able to catch my own wave.
2. Be able to stand on my surfboard after catching said wave.
3. Drink as many Pina Coladas and I wanted in the evenings.
4. Wash them down with mango smoothies for breakfast.
5. Do not drown.
6. Do not get bitten by a shark.
7. Return to the states with the same number of people I left with, preferably the same people.
8. Don’t see the inside of a Costa Rican hospital.
Two of my traveling companions almost forced me to break goal #8 by drinking the tap water and then becoming violently ill. So, when that catastrophe was so narrowly avoided, I thought it best that I not risk breaking my ankle jogging on the unpaved and pot-hole ridden roads.