Off-Season

A beginning and an end.  A starting point and a finishing point.  Races have a start and a finish.  You warm up into your start, and after you cross the line you get to have coffee.  Seasons have a beginning and an end.  Sport seasons, though some can be lengthy, have a beginning and an end.  An on-season and an off-season.  A time to build, taper and peak, and a time to let go and recover.  In high school, our entire track season was built around peaking at the State Championships.  Everything leading up to that was preparation.  And after the championship concluded, a period of rest awaited.  The rest was even sweeter after a State Championship trophy was hoisted.  Our high school girls track team won 4 state championships in a row (Freshman thru Senior year for me), and our girls cross-country team won 2 state championships in a row (my Junior and Senior years).  I loved the idea of a track "season" or a cross-country "season."  There was always an end in sight and as long as you knew that off-season was there, you could push through the tough part for just a little longer.  Wouldn't it be some kind of hell to have to run a race to which there was no end?

So what is it with us runners.  It occurred to me some time ago that adult/post-collegiate runners, ultra-runners, road racers, often don't have an off-season.  There isn't a time each year when road races occur and a time when they don't.  There isn't a road racing season per say, at least in Southern California.  If a runner is not careful, they may find themselves on a treadmill with no "off" button.  One race leads into preparation for the next, and the calendar fills up with options too plentiful to refuse or naviagate.  The mind, always looking forward, thinks, "I want to do it all."  No plan.  No relief.  No release.  No coffee after the race.  No off-season.

For a few years, I opted for the treadmill with no "off" button.  After a while though, my body decided to create off-seasons for me.  Only these off-seasons, thrust upon me as they were, came in increments of 8 months.  A "not my choice" off-season is not the same thing.  It was not planned and it most likely came because I was too foolish to admit that I needed an off-season on my terms.

Hopefully as a sign of growing wisdom, I planned an off-season on my own terms this year.  However, I regret to point out that I was one week short of reaching my off-season on my terms.  Instead, pushing my tired legs when I shouldn't have, an injury occurred, cutting the end of my planned season short by one race.  But, the timing was indeed almost perfect so I was able to embrace this off-season with joy, relief, allowing myself to let go mentally.  It helped too that the winter temperatures were no fun for runners, so it was easy to find my way to the gym.

I couldn't run for a bit while getting through the impinged ankle nerve (see my last blog for details), but I wouldn't have been running anyway.  Instead, I filled my time with Stairmaster, Elliptical, Swimming, weight lifting, and all of it was done without pressure.  The workouts were nice and friendly.  I didn't worry about losing fitness, though inevitably I did.  I looked at it as my off-season and I was supposed to be recovering, both physically and mentally.  It wasn't about grinding through the rotations in intervals of oxygen depletion.  It wasn't about visualizing my goals, my opponents, the race courses, feeling the drive.  It was pure, no pressure.  I needed it.  I badly needed it.  And I took it.

My off-season lasted 8 weeks.  By the time I was ready to begin building into a new season, my body was healed and my mind renewed.  It wasn't long before I began feeling fresh again.  I wasn't chronically tired and sore.  I wasn't dealing with nerves as races approached.  I put no pressure on myself.  And I was looking at a new year, as a new year.  Not as an extention of the past year.  That's one of the beauties of having an end and a beginning.

I was hungry for training again.  The cross-training and sweaty gym was ok, but I wanted to feel the ground again and to hurt.  To begin training and to be reminded of how brave and gutsy I will need to be in my upcoming endeavors.  Goals were roaming all over my brain.  Excitement. 

My good friend and running buddy Jeff, already a highly accomplished masters runner, smashed his 1/2 marathon PR (at least his PR since being a master), running 3 minutes faster than his typical, already ridiculously fast, times.  This has motivated me.  Jeff is training for Boston so he's loading on huge miles.  My body probably can't handle as much as he does, but I know that those base miles are hugely important.  As I head into my new racing season, that's my first order of business.  My runs are averaging out to be 10 miles per run and I'll keep building until I find my happy place.  Endurance is a good thing.

My other good friend and running buddy Dax recently achieved a huge running goal.  He broke 40 minutes in a 10K before his 40th birthday (he's a waning 39 year old).  Dax is an ultra-runner but he's been doing speedwork.  This has motivated me.  My next order of business is a good speed-workout.  I'm three weeks back into speed work again.  I'm not where I was when I ended last season, but I'm not so far off.  I remind myself daily that the fitness will be back, strong and bold.  Stay fresh, push through the tough parts of the workout, and keep the excitement.

I love watching master runners who keep getting faster.  It inspires me.  My sweet husband John has been training and running and his race times are on a nice downward spiral.  He's never quite satisfied because he was a very fast young runner, but when he compartmentalizes his running career into the "then" and "now," he finds hope that he can still keep going.  He races against some of the most competitive guys around.  Man ... old people are FAST!  This has motivated me.

I threw in a fun race a few weeks ago.  The Super Bowl 4 Miler.  I really never race when I'm not ready to but it was used as a marker so that I knew what I had and where I was as I began my new season.  I struggled with being disappointed that I was over a minute slower than my last race on that course (2 years prior) but I didn't come into it race ready.  I had done no speedwork and really hadn't pushed myself.  So it was all in all a nice race on Superbowl Sunday.  And I won a totally cool full sized football!!

I have one more fun race planned next week, and then I look to the Carlsbad 5000 in April.  My first serious race this year.  The season's begun.  Things are slowly building.  Challenges?  Yes.  Always challenges.  Poison oak is apparently hard to recognize during the winter.  My body was recently ravished by poison oak of which I am super allergic.  It looked as if I rolled in it.  I'll not go into the horrid details except to say that this was not the kind of pain I was hoping to put my body through in training but it was how it played out. 

Ahhhhhh.  You can't have beginnings if you don't have endings.  Thank you "off-season."  You make me feel like I'm in high school again.  Watch out - I feel another state championship coming on.

I've Got Nerve!

Last week I found myself on the torture table; on the slab of punishment; the table of terror; I was asked to endure and participate in this torture -

The journey to this point began just before Thanksgiving.  After a fairly uneventful running season which included 14 races over a 7 month period, something crept up.  Well, really is just jumped me when I was looking the other way.  Just one more race to go and then the "off-season" would bring lighter training and mental recovery, but I just needed to get that last race in.  It was our sweet Turkey Trot 4 miler and it didn't need to be the race of my life; it just needed to be a race.  A few days before the Turkey Trot, a sharp pain began to nag in the infamous right side, void of my ankle.  Surely it was nothing so I put in a few gym workouts and laid off the run until the morning of the race.  I let the warm-up dictate how I would approach the race.  If there was still pain, I'd hold back a bit; if I felt fine, I'd push it.  One mile into the warm-up things looked promising as there was not much discomfort, and bit of a relaxed spring to my stride.  However, the next half mile revealed that indeed things were not fine.  The pain increased, became sharp and stinging, undefined, radiating, moving about my ankle.  Then came the mental struggle.  What do I do?  Run the race anyway?  Was there any point at all to do that, no.  But still, surely I can push my butt and drag my leg 4 miles.  I already paid, picked up my t-shirt, pinned on the number, carefully selected the outfit.  Jordan, my 17 year old son looks at me and bravely suggests, "Mom.  You shouldn't run the race.  If you run and hurt yourself you might not ever be able to run again."  Blink blink.  Think, ponder.  I think I'll race anyway.  After stretching for a long time, trying to find the right area to focus on, I rose again to do my final preparation of strides and drills.  Five steps into the stride, my body informed me that I would NOT be doing the Turkey Trot this year.  I actually couldn't even run.  The pain was so intense, so unreasonably cruel.  Why now?  Resigned to the inevitable, I dealt with it, put it away and decided to cheer for the 900 others that were able to do the race, including my husband (whom I love to cheer for).  But the dread and disappointment was hard to shake, and it lingered.

So I was sentenced to the wretched gym workouts again, day after day.  As the air grew colder outside, I decided it wasn't such a bad thing.  I would have been doing this anyway.  It was my plan to hit the cross-training anyway.  I just didn't like the fact that it was again thrust upon me rather than being on my terms.  And there was the added lurking fear that something was really wrong and I was looking at another year of rehab'ing a stupid running injury.  How many sidelines would I be sitting on this time around?

My visits to my sports Doc increased and he did his magic, and I didn't run.  However, every week I gave it a go on the treadmill to see if things were getting better.  Every time I strode slowly on the treadmill, about 1 mile into it, the "sharp, burning, impossible to endure, non-descript" pain hit me and I rolled to a stop in frustration.  Week after week for 4 long weeks I refrained from doing anything to aggravate the area and my visits to the Doc continued.  I was beginning to get desperate and was considering that I might need an MRI.  No matter how much therapy I got and no matter how much I laid off running, it did not improve, and in fact got worse.  Whereas it was taking about a mile before the pain hit, how it came after 1/4 of a mile.

One Friday night, just before Christmas, I set aside another "trial" to see if I could run without the stabbing ice pick doing a tattoo on my ankle.  I should have known something was even more "not right" than usual because the area had become increasingly "tight" in feel, even when I walked.  But ... you know ... I needed to give it a go.  The first step hurt, with an immediate stab of pain, burning, radiating, sharp pain and a sense of something pulling inside.  I jogged on to see if it would improve as I warmed up and I tried to move my foot in different ways and land differently, but no matter what I tried, indeed it got worse.  How can this be after such a lay off and so much work to get it resolved.  I sat by the track, and dropped to the ground to stretch and to probe and try to pinpoint what hurt.  There was no area that hurt to the touch, no swelling, nothing notably tight.  After a stretch I decided I'd just push through it and jog a few laps.  No more than 10 steps later, probably fewer, in an excruciating burst of pain, something literally "popped" or pulled away, or gave way.  I couldn't tell which but when it happened I knew "something" just happened.  I assumed my Achilles ruptured but as I dragged myself back around the curve to my stretching spot, I thought about how my Achilles has not been the issue this time, so why would it rupture?  I sat down, and as the pain subsided I dug my fingers into my ankle and the tendons and muscle all around it trying to feel what just happened.  My Achilles was still fully intact and not at all sore or painful.  Still there was no swelling - that was a relief, but there was a significant radiation of pain when I pressed my toes against my hand.  I was pretty sure it was time for an MRI, but my doctor was out of town for Christmas so I didn't want to do anything until I checked with him.

In the meantime, I was sore for days but I continued to hit the gym to keep my fitness and my mind in check.  The first thing I began to notice as I emerged from this fog of soreness was that the tightness I had been feeling was gone.  Another week of cross-training in the gym passed by.  Hello stinky people, noisy equipment, stale air.  I wanted out of the gym and the more I wanted it the more I became afraid to test out my nimble, fragile leg on the treadmill.

Enter ... Hoka.  You know Hoka.  As in Hoka One One.  As in Hoka One One Bondi.  The overstuffed lightweight training shoe that is raved about by the Ultra-running community.  I don't think it's caught on that much yet with us road-runners, but I began researching the shoe.  I needed pillows to run on and if I was going to test my nimble, fragile leg on a run, I didn't want to do it in the same shoes that I was using when I incurred the injury.  So.  I read, and read, and read about the Hoka.  I read reviews, I read stats, I watched videos and I had a runner friend against whom I bounced the idea.  His reply - I am on my third pair of Hokas.  Love them.  Plain and simple.

They are not cheap shoes.  Thank you, thank you Santa Barbara Running, for donating gift certificates to the Santa Barbara Grand Prix.  Without that generous prize, these shoes might have been out of reach.

As soon as I could after Christmas, I went to SB Running and nabbed a pair of Hoka One One Bondi B Low road running model shoes.  I had to test them out on the treadmill before purchasing them of course so I was now going to once again test out my nimble, fragile leg as well.  The first few steps on the treadmill were exactly what I was hoping for.  I was running on pillows that were as light as fluffy, puffy clouds.  My foot strike sunk into the shoe and it took the impact that my foot usually takes.  The shoe flexed easily, was freakishly light, encouraged proper foot strike and was literally mind blowing.  I was so taken by the feel of the shoe that I forgot to notice that I was running and not having an ice pick hacking away at my ankle.  I'm running on the treadmill and it hardly hurts!

In hinds sight, it was determined that I had a nerve, a significant nerve, impinged in my heel/ankle.  My doctor continued to work on the tight muscles that could have been the culprit, but it was now improving since on that fateful day before Christmas when something "popped," the reality was that the nerve was finally released.  And healing began.

So, with my new Hokas in one hand and my ability to finally get out of the gym and into the fresh air to run in the other hand, my son Ryan and I hit the city college to do stadium steps.  It was the stadium steps that landed me on the slab of torture that I mentioned at the beginning of this post. 

With tight, sore hamstrings and a doctor determined to not let the nerve become impinged again, he informed me that I wasn't going to be too happy today.  You know what ART is?  He does that, he invented that.  So I endured and even participated in my own torture as I had to move my leg back and forth while he applied ... um ... pressure.  It's like purposefully keeping your hand in a flame, or repeatedly kicking your shin bone against a piece of sharp metal.  But it was magic.

For me it's hard to write about running when you can't do it.  As I write this, I am running again and feeling just fine now.  The healed and released nerve is part of the blessing, and the new shoes are the other part.  I believe that Hokas were made for me, and are made for anyone who has to spend so many miles on hard surfaces.

I'm finally able to look at the Spring and plan the races I will do.  This year will also include some triathlons so I am enjoying great bike rides with the SB tri club as part of my ongoing cross-training regimen and also am looking forward to the Carlsbad 5000 which I haven't been able to do for several years.  But this year it's going to happen.  John and I are populating our calendar with our race plans and it just feels good and right and I am not looking ahead with hesitation and having to wonder if I will be healed by then.  I am healed now.

SoCal USATF Cross-Country Grand Prix

Cross-country is not road racing.  Characterized by varying distances, often in between specific measurements, all sorts of surfaces and terrain, elevation gains and dips, run in seemingly remote locations, nature under you; over you; all around you, no worry of a PR because every race is a PR.  I took a break from the roads and did a small cross-country season and loved it.

The Southern California Association of USA Track and Field offered a sweet cross-country grand prix.  They compassionately offer prize money for the master's division and I always appreciate that.  As it turned out though, some of the toughest competition was in the master's division.

As previously reported, the first race for me in the series was a few weeks ago in Ventura, the Twilight's Last Gleaming 4 miler.  It was an awesome race featuring a long, steep climb in the first mile, the "Wall" in the 2nd mile, and an irate, dis-compassionate, unsportsman-like lunatic of a coach in the finishing mile.  That was last week's news.  The past two weeks brought a final qualifying race and a championship race.

The qualifying race was held last weekend at Will Roger's State Park in Pacific Palisades.  This spectacular park sits up in the Santa Monica Mountains and features an almost continuous view of the Pacific Ocean.  The park also possesses the only remaining polo field in LA.  When I arrived on the crisp, dry Saturday, I was first greeted by a herd of grazing deer.  No matter how many deer I see in my lifetime, I will always find them breath-taking to behold.  They paid no mind to me and I watched them buck around, drink and graze while I began my warm-up.  The air that morning was too dry, too hot and I knew that regardless of pace or effort, it was going to hurt to breath.  Dry air is a nemesis of mine and causes my bronchial tubes to rebel into spasm and chaos.  Unfortunately, this tends to begin with my first hard breath, and in this case, lasted a whole week following the race. 

I got a nice verbal course description from one of my fellow competitors.  She told me the 4.5 mile course is two loops up to Inspiration Point.  What?  Two?  Up?  Yah, so basically you go 1 mile up, 1 mile down, 1 mile up, 1 mile down, and then you drag your butt around the polo field to the finish.  See, cross-country is so cool.  It is fully unpredictable. 

The races were run by gender, so our race featured the 8 female competitors who needed this race to complete their two race requirement for the grand prix.  There were 4 open women (39 and under) and 4 master's women.  Need I say I began to worry about having to bring up the rear? 

There was no gun.  There was simply a "go."  What is it with these LA women - they have no sense of pacing.  Everyone took off like they were running a downhill mile and there's only 8 of us so you have to hang.  It's hard to run your own race in such a setting.  But it wasn't long before everyone began to slow, string out along the course in a particular order, and breath with much difficulty as the course wound up onto the first loop of the switch-backs to the top.  I settled in somewhat near two of the other master's women, but didn't keep track of anyone else.  I had no idea what place I was in, nor did it matter that much to me.  I knew a few were behind me and a few were ahead of me.  I was in pain.  Every breath hurt from the beginning and the 80'ish degree air at 8:00 am in the morning might as well have been 100 degrees in Death Valley.  The only race urge in me was to simply keep moving in forward motion hoping for the elusive "top of the hill" to come very soon.  I tried to put out of my mind the fact that this was only loop #1.  Up, up, up we strode and I may have passed someone, I'm not sure.  When we crested the top I saw a few ladies not far ahead, striding into the long, gradual downhill.  They were right there, yet they were so far away.  I had hoped the downhill would bring recovery and relief but though the pace naturally quickened, my lungs still screamed for mercy.  Dry, hot, dusty air and spasming bronchial tubes.

On the next loop, the female directly ahead of me finally gave in to the relentless climb back up and doubled over for some gasps of air.  I passed her feeling the urge to encourage her but having no strength of voice to force the words.  I could relate to the pain she must have been feeling but in my mind I reminded myself to just keep moving - once I made it to the next top, it was downhill from there.  So I journeyed on with painful breaths, saw the gap widen between me and the other "old lady" ahead of me.  Finally to the top of the second loop, I fell into the downhill with grateful loping strides but still found it difficult to push and to breath.  I did my best to let my body do most of the work using gravity instead of power.  I held my own and finally found the finish chute in 4th place.  Beaten by only one Open woman, I finished as the third master.  Old ladies rule.

My lungs were very unhappy and I struggled to breath for a while after I finished.  Each breath remained painful for the remainder of the day and into the next.  From there I suffered with a lingering sore throat while coughing to remove stuff that shouldn't be there. It was like I had this awful chest cold, only I didn't have a cold.  I just had all the symptoms. This lasted through the week and unfortunately followed me into the final championship race.

The Championship race was held this past Saturday at Kenneth Hahn Park in West LA.  This park has a reputation.  The reputation is ... gophers.  Randomly in the days before, three different people mentioned to me the issue of gopher holes at this particular location.  This park features a crater-like grass oval that can only be described as a gopher and ground squirrel's best friend and a runner's worst nightmare.  The course was of European design which meant, all grass, and was a 3 loop 6K distance.  To say that there was no fair footing to manage on this course would be an understatement.  It was fully riddled with trap-doors of collapsing tunnels, tufts of crab grass mixed with thick soggy areas, random holes and to make it all the more fun, a steep climb up a root infested hill onto a gruesome false flat.  And this was to be done three times.  It was awesome!  Like, true cross-country with the real threat of bodily harm.  John and I laughed audibly many times while warming up and trying to do strides on the opening 25 meter stretch had me almost rolling on the ground with "you gotta be kidding me" belly giggles.  The funniest thing though was listening to the other master's runners, especially the men - in fact only the men.  They were like the biggest weenies, complaining about the injuries they were sure to get.  The "I'm too old for this" cross-sectioned with "well, I'm not going to be able to do more than 10 minute pace on this junk."  "Should I keep my bi-focals on?  Can't see the contour of the ground as well with my bi-focals."  Then the guys tried to psyche themselves up.  One coach called his old guys together for a huddle and pep-talk.  "Shoot.  I didn't come to this race to get injured."  "Huh, you should have seen last year's course - it was even worse." 

So the master's men and women toed the line of this championship course while the race director, who was also running in the race, explained the course.  "The red flags are always on your Left, and the green flags are always on your Right, the blue flags just mean go straight on either side."  Wait a minute, the red flags are on the left, or right, can't remember.  No gun, just a "go."  And we were off like a limping flock of albatross trying to catch flight but unable to muster the speed.  The first thing I notice is a couple of orange cones ahead of me.  He didn't say anything about cones. Which side should I take to go around them?  That lunatic coach is watching.  Oh heck, I'll just jump over them.  Oh, is that a big hole - out of my mouth comes, "Um, I guess those were there for a reason."  But no broken ankle yet.  What is it with me and the orange cones?  Dead on, I hit the next orange cone, like I'm attracted to them or something.  Cones, I discovered, mean "hazzard".  They needed about 500 more orange cones out there.  Down the grass, around the big tree, back up the grass, arms flying all over the place, around the next bend, through the sloshy, thick, wet grass section, up the steep ground squirrel mountain, over the roots, yes, lungs burning already and it's only loop #1.  The best footing was up along the rim and we actually had the option of jumping onto the pavement up there for a short stretch.  Ah ankle and knee relief, but back onto the grass for the "if you make it down without breaking something it's a miracle" downhill portion.  From there it was through the desert of gopher holes (and this is where the tunnels will cave in under your feet so step lightly), around another tree, but make sure that green flag is to your right, um or left, can't remember.  Back up through gopher hole haven (must have been a resort area for them) around another bend and back to the start for the beginning of loop #2.

Three of those and then finally, and although it was only 23 minutes, it felt like an hour so when I say finally, I mean FINALLY, I make some sort of effort to finish strong, or at least to finish standing up.  The finish always means one thing first ... Oxygen.  They placed the medal around my neck while I was leaning forward shamelessly on my knees.  My predecessors were lying around in heaps so I know we all had a similar race.  Three seems to be my lucky number.  I was yet again third master's female.  With this concluding race being worth double points, I also secured third place in the grand prix.

Cross-country as I said, is unpredictable.  That's what makes it so fun.  I enjoyed my short little cross-country season.  It was a fitting end to a long come-back from a year of injury and to make it through these last three grueling races without re-injuring myself must be a good sign.  Challenges strengthen us.  I feel stronger.

While in West LA, John and I visited the Nike store in Santa Monica.  We saw a replica of Steve Prefontaine's track shoes made by Bill Bowerman in 1969.  It had "Pre" still visible on the heel and featured sandpaper for added traction. How cool is that.  A real piece of running history.  Oh how far our shoes have come in just a few short decades.

The Twilight's Last Gleaming

As a possibly historic storm system is bearing down upon our East coast, I jest to a New Yorker on the phone today, "Yah, ummm.  It's ummm. It's 85 degrees and pristine today.  How's it looking for you."  I did wish the New Yorker safety and truly hope all our fellow countrymen stay safe and protected through the storm.

On Saturday, John and I took an evening trip to Ventura to compete in the first race of a Southern California USATF cross-country Grand Prix Series.  Well, it was actually the third race in the series but the first for us, and will be followed by another cross-country race next weekend, and will culminate the week after that with the SoCal USATF Section Championship.  Three cross-country races in three weeks.  It almost feels like the college cross-country season again ... except I'm not 22 anymore.

The weather Saturday was as it has been lately, hot and dry and the later evening hour didn't cool the air at all.  We were inland running the trails of Arroyo Verde Park.  It is a new favorite running spot of mine.  We arrived at 4:00 PM to register for The Twilight's Last Gleaming Cross Country Challenge.  The race cost a mere $10 per runner ($8 for return runners) and you had to pay a $5 penalty for registering early.  Andrew, the race organizer (he refers to himself as the race disorganizer) has a sweet sense of humor.  In fact, he must have been laughing a deep belly laugh 27 years ago when he planned this USATF certified 4 mile race course.  His primary course description goes something like this:  "This course is un-runable.  It is manageable only by Sherpas and mountain goats."  He finds humor in this.  I found challenge in it.  The first mile includes a lengthy steep, unrelenting slope up a city street.  But more on the course later.

I decided a few weeks ago, as I have been already dabbling in some of the SoCal USATF races and grand prix series events, to compete in the Cross-country grand prix.  In order to fully qualify for grand prix prize money, I would need to complete two events plus the championship event so our friendly Ventura race was a must do.  The remaining two races take place in Los Angeles.

So here we were, warming up on a grassy knoll in a wooded park that formed a valley, or maybe it was a wide canyon, in the middle of mountains.  I read the course description twice.  Neither time did it make a bit of sense, nor did it make any more sense when our humorous race disorganizer described it at our starting line.  The race is challenging and has a lot of up - that part I pretty much grasped and I otherwise hoped for a lot of volunteers or at least lots of chalk to define the particulars.  The Twilight's Last Gleaming has a 27 year history, and is characterized by uniqueness.  For one, it is indeed an evening race, run in the twilight.  Also, it is inexpensive and there is no chance of pre-registration.  It is not a profit making event but rather an event of community and camaraderie; runners doing what they do.  The age groups are segmented by 6 year increments instead of 5.  My age group was 42-47.  The fee covered only the essentials of park rental, sanction and insurance fees and awards.  We registered by writing our name and address on a piece of paper, no race numbers were used.  The average amount of runners to attend is 60, but there were fewer this year.  There were only 6 females in this year's race.  Andrew keeps a Top Ten times list and age group records.  The female record is help by Sylvia Mosqueda, a former elite American runner and still a formible Masters runner.  The four mile course takes approximately 5-7 minutes longer than the same distance on a normal course.  For a female to go under 30 minutes would be a huge accomplishment and only a few have ever done it.  This is just one of those unique perfect little races.  Just my kind of race, just my kind of course.

Now to the real point of this blog post.  Controversy and anguish.  There was an LA team attending this year's race, among which were all men, and one female.  They were fun and friendly, and like everyone else, were feeling the dry air in every pore wondering what kind of hell they were about to enter.  Many of the other racers in attendance were those who never fail to show up to the yearly challenge in the twilight.  There was also a 52 year old long time racer who held many of the top 10 times run on the course, including the record for my age group.  Unusual for me, I was calm and looking forward to the hills and the challenge.  I felt no feeling of competition but rather I felt we were all in this together - one of those "watch out for your fellow runner and leave no man or woman behind."  But too, I was running for grand prix points, so yes, I did intend to win.

Sometime after 5:00 PM our race disorganizer called everyone to the starting line.  He spent a gracious 8 or so minutes telling us the history of the race and detailing the ups and ups of the course.  First there was the steep road mile, then the pitted hard and soft ground which constituted the trails that lead back down and through the park.  There was this hideous thing called "The Wall" that was to hit around 2 miles, but there were a lot of other ups before The Wall, and many treacherous downs as well.  So on he spoke while runners stretched and fidgeted, with a few nervous chuckles thrown in.  Then finally the gun (and yes he used a gun - he's totally old school - I love it).  We took off with long strides up, over and down a grassy slope, onto the park road, through the skinny, narrow "you could lose some skin here" gait out of the park, up a steep "are you kidding me" cliff and whew! out into traffic, up the street to the other street.  The other street is the steep street and there was an immediate separation of men from mice.  I had already settled well close to the front, with mostly LA running club guys in red ahead of me, with a few of the locals in there too.  No girls though.  No girls anywhere close.  This was just one of those slow, steady, short strided grinds and you just do it.  You just get it done.  Up, up, up, very steep, then a leveling off, almost a slight down slope but then turn the corner and even more up, up, up.  But now I can see where runners are leaving the street back onto the path and I know exactly how much hill hell is left.  I shuffled past the first mile and received a nice "great job" from Andrew who had dragged his car up the hill in time to read out splits - not that you really want to hear 8:05 at your first mile, but he did warn us that this would be our slowest mile of the year.  Now the narrow downhill along a ridge line lay ahead and I followed a youngster down this spine, wanting to pass but having no room to do so.  I hung behind until we got vomited out (it was like a straight vertical path formed by water run-off that fed us onto another trail) onto a new and wider path and I challenged my young running buddy as we began to ascend another relentless part of the course.  We came to an even steeper hill and I though surely this must be the dreaded "Wall."  No, it wasn't.  The Wall was still to come.  Up, up, sometimes a little level and down, up, up we climbed toward the top of the park.  There came a time when the trail stayed level and went straight but our course turned right and bam, there was "The Wall."  I'm not a mountain goat and my lungs were beyond dry and dusty and screaming at me but I was catching the two guys ahead of me, Mr. Yellow and Mr. Sweaty Gray.  We finally crested this monster and were greeted by sandy, soft switch backs back down to the park and I hung with Yellow and Gray and tried to enjoy the ride.  We past the Beware of Rattlesnakes sign and proceeded straight across and followed the little flags that showed us the course.  Unfortunately there really weren't many volunteers to help us find our way so, here it goes, Mr. Yellow and Mr. Gray ... and I ... missed a right hand turn that was to take us to a path just above where we were running.  We followed a different set of flags and soon found that we were in the wrong spot.  I have never, and I have run competitively since I was 9 years old, ever gotten a course wrong.  Never.  The three of us at some point knew that we were running parallel to the course but off of the appropriate path.  We stopped, U-turned, ran back several yards until a spectator showed us we were supposed to be on the path just above.  With me now in the lead, we climbed up a steep ravine (thank you very much) and got back on course.  The remainder of the race was along this path, across the grass, onto a path on the other side of the park, up and down, until we came to a hairpin turn, down to the BBQ area, up around the round about full of palm trees, back onto the park grass until finally we had a 50 foot run up to the finish line.  It was on this final up hill that I was greeted by the angry accusations from the LA coach that I cheated.  He yelled at me as I was still running, so that for sure everyone in the area could clearly hear, that I skipped a section.  He also informed everyone in the vicinity that I was not an official finisher (just me, apparently Mr. Yellow and Mr. Gray get to be official finishers but I don't).  I crossed the line in 30:55 and my GPS showed that I completed 3.99 miles.  Mr. Yellow's GPS showed 4.17 miles (and mind you, John's GPS said 4.00 exactly and he ran the proper way).  We did indeed miss a right turn but essentially ran the same distance and the same basic slope in parallel to the trail up above.  I knew we had made a mistake so that wasn't so much of an issue.  What was an issue was the insinuation that I did so on purpose.  Like I really need to cheat to beat a girl I was already 2 minutes head of anyway.  It got even more ugly.  I was fully aware of our mistake and was fully prepared to let the race disorganizer do what he thought was best.  I did NOT appreciate a rapidly approaching LA coach yelling at me that I was disqualified from the grand prix.  I told him I know we accidentally missed the turn and that once we discovered it, we back tracked and got back on course.  I showed him my watch which showed the mileage I ran (he didn't bother looking at it).  When his girl came through to the finished he yelled, loudly mind you, good job, you're the first woman. This was to clearly inform me and everyone else that I indeed didn't count.  He looked back at me and informed me that I missed some huge section of the course.  Really, I missed a huge section of the course but yet still ran the same distance?  Later, one of the many compassionate on-lookers took me on the section I missed.  Like I said, we paralleled the course.  I ran virtually the same course except down below it and did not in any way miss a huge section of the course.  We also had backtracked, ran on a grass and wood chip path instead of dirt, had to stop, panic and u-turn, and ran up a steep hill to get back to where we needed to be.  I felt assaulted by this man and for what?  There was no logic in his motive except that he was looking for a cheap one single point for his female runner whom I easily beat.  But the fact remained and I knew it, that I did not complete the USATF course.  I could blame it on poor course marking and/or lack of direction on the course, or I could blame it on Mr. Yellow and Mr. Gray whom I was following.  But the fact is, it was my responsibility and I had to settle in my mind that this year's cross-country grand prix was not to be.  If I was disqualified I wouldn't have enough races to qualify for prize money.  It was in the hands of Andrew and Andrew had already been well informed by LA coach that I was not the official winner, that I cut the course, that I didn't complete the officially measured USATF course.  In the midst of this, the theme of The Twilight's Last Gleaming faded as the sun set.  I did not feel camaraderie any longer.  I felt attacked by a fellow runner/coach, relentlessly and discompassionately. 

I turned in my finisher's card and wrote on the bottom that I had missed a turn, ran the wrong way, back tracked as soon as I knew, and that my GPS read 3.99.  When Andrew was placing the finisher cards on the results board, he called my number and I walked up and began explaining.  He gently interrupted me before I finished and said, "I know what happened, and this is how I'm going to handle it.  I'm not going to disqualify you because that would put you out of the grand prix.  However, I can't name you as the winner but will still award you with your age group win.  Your time won't count for any records or Top Ten."  He pointed out that he himself is in charge of the scoring for the grand prix and since I'm in the Master's division and my fellow LA competitor is merely in her 20's, there is no reason why my race should be stripped as it would be no benefit to her anyway.  I thanked him exceedingly for not disqualifying me and for allowing me to collect the points, received my age group award tile pictured above and went home with John feeling like I had snakes in my belly.  I couldn't easily or readily get the whole experience out of my mind.  My time would have placed me 7th on the top ten list but I will have to wait one more year and hope for another strong race next year in order to officially post it.

Next Sunday I will head to Pacific Palisades to run another cross-country race.  I will see LA coach again.  Perhaps he will be less vocal this time, especially since John reprimanded him for his conduct.

It remains to be seen how this will really play out.  I'm unclear on how I will be scored for this race and don't know if I will even be listed among the participants in the results.  Will I be listed with an * next to my name which let's everyone know of my mistake.  Oh, and by the way, Mr. Yellow and Mr. Gray were completely unaffected by this little mistake.  No one even noted that they too had missed a turn.  LA coach could care less.  He was interested in pointing the finger only at me because he felt his runner had something to gain if I was disqualified.

I believe Andrew is an excellent race disorganizer and he handled the situation in a way that worked out for everyone.  By next week, hopefully this will be out of my head and I'll be ready for the next one, and then onto the championship race and possibly a little prize money.  And like I told Greg, the coach from San Fernando Valley who apologized to me on behalf of all coaches for the conduct of LA coach, it's yet another lesson learned.

Beware of the Super Anti's

I'm a self-proclaimed "naturalist."  Don't know the term?  That's ok.  I think I just made it up.  Here's an explanation.  I like to live my life naturally as much as possible.  Or at least as much as I deem comfortably, but not obsessively, possible.  I gave birth to both of my children at home with a mid-wife, no doctor involved, no hospital involved, certainly no drugs involved.  They were both born with the highest possible APGAR scores and could hold their heads up without support from their first intake of O2 into their strong lungs.  Something else I'm natural about.  My health care.  As a rule, I don't take prescription drugs, nor over-the-counter drugs.  I try to keep my body strong by using it for exercise and feeding it right.  When I have a sinus infection, cold, random symptom, I let my body work it out.  No drugs, no antibiotics.  I one time sat with John in a doctor's off and listened to a physician, who knew nothing about John, didn't know the cause of his ailment, had not run any tests, etc..., tell John he was going to prescribe him Lipitor.  "Well," says the physician, "when such and such and so and so happens, at such and such an age, we like to see our patients take Lipitor."  I felt my blood pressure rise and tried to control the quiver in my voice, working hard not to jump at the well educated professional's jugular, as I turned to John and said, no ... you don't need that drug.  Lipitor, one of many drugs which has side effects that are worse than the problem they are meant to fix.

Well this "naturalist" had a Urinary tract infection crop up a few weeks ago.  Because I knew this was one of those issues that if left unattended to, can become a much bigger problem, I visited a doctor knowing I would likely be prescribed a mild antibiotic.  Tetracycline or maybe a penicillin drug, which I knew were generally safe.  This was a big deal for me to visit a doctor and working through the dilemma of needing help to rid my body of an infection.  I have to, even in my desire to be as natural as possible, admit that our environment challenges our natural health and sometimes, yes, we need a drug.  So yes, off to the doctor, yada yada yada, 30 minutes and $100 later, boom, yes it is confirmed a UTI.  No big deal, we'll just give you this drug and you will be a new person.  "You will be a new person" were his exact words.  It's been a long time since I've taken an antibiotic, years and years.  I didn't realize the mostly harmless Tetracycline and penicillin drugs are basically obsolete having been overtaken by a new generation of Super Anti's.  I got my prescription ... wow, I only have to take 6 pills?  That's only three days and then I'll be a new person.  I picked it up at the window and in my busy day, rushed back home to resume my workday.

I read labels.  I read the extensive list of potential side effects of this Super Anti - by the way Cipro is it's formal name.  It is a fluoroquinolone - more on that in a moment.  I read the label from top to bottom and side to side and was suddenly conflicted.  I didn't want this stuff in my body.  Maybe I shouldn't have read the label and just mindlessly took the poison.  What happened to the old school antibiotic, the pink bubblegum stuff which I know would have sufficed?  This stuff was an automatic weapon and I was afraid it would take out more than just the infection.  Options, options, options.  What do I do?  Do I just take the stupid stuff - It's only 6 tablets total?  I was stressed with work, had no time to go back to the doc's office, was experiencing discomfort and feeling run down with a low grade fever and I wanted this infection to just be eradicated.  I tossed this all around in my head, and finally decided to go ahead and take the junk. 

Here's what Cipro (and all flouroquinolones) can do:  A far too common well-known "side effect" is spontaneous tendon ruptures, especially of the Achilles tendon.  The doc who prescribed this knew I was an athlete.  Cipro also causes toxicity in any number of body parts, most commonly in muscles/tendons, to the Central nervous system, eyes, liver and kidneys.  In 10% of the population, the body cannot rid itself of the drug ever.  A very recent article in the New York Times outlines in dramatic fashion, the dangerous side effects of these new widely used antibiotics.  Please feel free to read the article itself: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/09/10/popular-antibiotics-may-carry-serious-side-effects/  There have been numerous lawsuits filed.

For someone like me who just hates medication, this has been a hellish month.  I had immediate effects from the drug including nausea, light-headedness and dizziness, heart and respiratory issues, and yes, a severe reaction in my R posterior tibial tendons.  Just a few days after finishing the three day cycle of ingestion of the poison, I attended the Tuesday evening track workout with Mike Swan and the gang.  I felt ok prior to the workout, but once we began the intervals I was surprised to find that I quickly fatigued within even the first 200 meters of each interval, feeling like I had a tight rubber band strapped around my chest.  I was wheezing and my heart was working inefficiently.  I had to drop out of the intervals several times and couldn't recover in between.  I ended up leaving the workout early, feeling dizzy, wiped out, and frustrated. 

The next day, without direct cause, I woke up with an odd feeling of soreness in my inner lower calf.  It was clearly swollen and I could feel a soreness with my walking gait but the muscles and tendons themselves didn't seem to be directly involved in the motion of walking.  The soreness seemed to be in the stabilizing muscles and tendons and hurt acutely when I rolled my ankle from side to side.  I swam that night instead of running, and while in the pool began to experience the same constriction I felt the night before on the track.  I was in oxygen debt even while just warming up and I could feel the lack of oxygen all the way to my fingertips.  I wasn't able to draw in enough and my heart was working too hard for such a minimal effort.  By now I wasn't wondering if this was Super Anti related, I knew it was.

The following day I did my usual moderate pushed pace run, and handled it cardio-vascularly but had intense pain in that posterior tibial area and in my hip (how random is that).  I don't have issues with these body parts ever.  I ended the run limping and swollen.  From there I decided to cross-train until I could see the Chiropractor early the next week.  The issue persisted even though I wasn't running and seemed most effected by non-running movements.  This wasn't a "running" injury.  It made no sense and although one area was clearly swollen, the pain was manifested in various places.  This happened to be an area of the leg that contained many deeper tendons which attached the calf muscles to the ankle, foot and shin bones.  They were clearly all inflamed as confirmed by the Chiropractor. Is it a stress-fracture, is it a deep vein thrombosis?

A week later I was running a 10 miler with a fast running buddy, and felt pretty good, and was spending time being thankful that I felt pretty good.  But around mile 3, my heart began fluttering (palpitating) and pumping inefficiently again, and I felt as if all the blood (along with its O2) drained out of my body.  I had immediate fatigue down to my fingertips and felt dizzy.  I figured I'd keep going until I dropped or until my heart corrected itself.  Thankfully my heart did correct itself and so I mentioned nothing to my running partner.  It happened one other time on that run.

I have poisoned my body.  I took a drug that was literally poisonous and toxic.  Yep, I am indeed a new person doctor.  Thanks.  But I had it easy compared to many, many others (if you read that article above you will see what I mean).  Others have lost their vision, have psychological issues, seizures, weakness and loss of all manner of strength, and kidney failure.  The Super Anti's, which should only be used for life-threatening infections, are being widely prescribed for every little thing.  It's like killing a fly with a machine gun.  The fly isn't the only thing eradicated unfortunately.

Over the past week or so I have had complete resolution of the posterior tibial issue.  It's gone, completely without a trace.  My visit back to the track this week was a bit better although I still felt some constriction and difficulty with breathing, but it was much better than a few weeks prior.  It is my hope that my body is capable of ridding itself of this toxin, and that seems to be the case, but I don't feel completely back to normal yet.

Tomorrow John and I will be competing in the Santa Monica 5000.  I am in good fitness but I have this big question mark - how will my body react when I push it to the limit?  Will my heart flutter?  Will I be able to breath?  It makes it hard to have competitive confidence, but I am hopeful for a good race.

My plea to anyone who reads this is to be proactive regarding your medical care.  I should have asked questions when this drug was prescribed.  I should have asked for the most mild possible remedy and insisted on it.  If you aren't already, be aware that today's antibiotics are harmful and don't be fooled by the lie that side effects are rare.  Everyone has side effects from these drugs.

So onward to Santa Monica and free breathing (even though we will be breathing in LA air which is also toxic).  I wish the best to all of those who are racing this weekend in various places: Goleta, Solvang, Long Beach, Chicago, 100K ultras ... Do your best!

Four Races in Eleven Days: Race Reports

I'm not going to sit here and write, "What was I thinking?"  I know what I was thinking.  I was thinking that I was fully capable of handling the rigors of 4 hard race efforts in the span of less than two weeks.  After all, my training includes at least two hard efforts each week in the form of tempo or interval work, so this compact race schedule didn't worry me too much.  The races that I chose to do just fell into this schedule and I had to deal with it.  So it is what it is. 

I began with The Westmonster 5K (follow link to read Westmonster race report), which was a great race to start with.  A challenging, hard cross-country style race on a picture perfect evening, mid-week, on Thursday.  Although it was just a 5K, I have to admit that it took something out of me and my legs, leaving me ever so slightly depleted for my next race.

Race #2 would come 3 days later, the McConnell's 10K.  I didn't have the luxury of tapering into this race as I still had to be mindful of my preparation for the upcoming weekend which included my final two races.  On Saturday, the day prior to McConnell's, I ran a preview of the 10 mile run course of the upcoming Santa Barbara Triathlon.  It had to be a regular training day for me.  I couldn't afford to lose that last opportunity to run a vigorous preview of the course I would be racing on the following weekend.  As I sweated along in my Saturday "long" run, I kept apologizing to the McConnell's 10K, hoping that I'd have something left the following morning to offer to it.

Sunday, race day for the McConnell's 10K, was a leisurely morning.  I love that the race doesn't start until 9:30 am, while at the same time I hate that it starts at 9:30 am.  It is, after all, mid-August and although the race does start on the coast, it doesn't stay there.  The out-and-back course gets hotter with each mile inland, and for some unknown, freakish, inexplicable reason, it gets even hotter with each return mile.  So, here's the reality.  I do NOT run well in the heat unless I am fully acclimated, and at this point in my training, I am not well acclimated to high'ish temperatures.  So John and I arrived at Goleta Beach, trying to feel ready to run.  I knew I wouldn't be at my freshest, but I figured I'd be able to hold a decent pace and I set my goals accordingly.  When I factored in the temperature, I reduced my expectations just a bit.  I had a simple goal, one I was sure I could manage.  I simply wanted to run slightly faster than my last McConnell's 10K effort which was two years earlier.  Two years earlier I was the first female until I was passed in the last few meters of the race.  As it turned out, I was passed by another master's runner who therefore nabbed the master's course record, with me a wimpy 3 seconds later.  So, based on that I could only boast running the second fastest time by a master's woman on that course.  And, to boot, it was a crummy race and a poor time for me, and I had been coming off of a previous dreadful Achilles injury.  So this year I figured I would be able to, even on tired legs, run better and claim the master's women course record which would have required a 38:50 or better.  No problem I thought.  With less fitness and on a twisting, difficult course I had run faster than this a few months earlier at the Gaucho Gallop.  Surely on this mostly flat out-and-back course, even on a hot day, pre-fatigued, I could manage this goal.

Well here's how this year's McConnell's played out.  I felt no nervousness at the line, however I did feel this heavy blanket of ... blah, with sprinkles of .... yuck it's hot ... this is going to hurt ... do I really need to do this race, crud I paid, I should run.  Not the best mindset for a race start.  The "on your mark, get set, go" voice happened at some point, interrupting my complex thought process and I found my body moving forward.  Eventually my brain caught up and I settled into that first mile, feeling mostly ok and happy with a 5:55 completion of that mile.  As is typically the case, by the second mile I had slowed into reality and evened out the effort and was perfectly where I needed to be in my pace.  What happened after mile two is a whole other story. 

I found that my perfect pace was impossible to maintain and I began to creep into that realm of discomfort way too early.  I was only in mile three and I began readjusting my plan of picking up the pace on the way back.  Those thoughts were replaced by, "shoot.  Why couldn't this race be the McConnell's 4 mile."  I really thought that.  I was sucking eggs.  Why was I sucking eggs?  Was everybody else sucking eggs?  Ricky didn't look like he was sucking eggs as he zoomed back in the other direction, several long minutes ahead of me.  Joy didn't look like she was sucking eggs when she was heading back.  I was sucking eggs into my lungs and they were collecting in my stomach and at some point they were going to have to pop or come back up.  Finally, I made it to the turn around point, completely and fully off of my intended pace.  I wondered if somehow I would begin to feel better on the way back, like maybe the wind would push me or the unchanging bike path would actually have some inconceivable downward slope that just made running hard feel better.  I did not in any way begin to feel better.  I had to let go of my simple goal, and replaced it with a new goal.  My new goal was to finish this bad boy.  Why was this course and race spanking me?  Honestly I had no reason.  I had been running along here for weeks, 7+ mile runs, and at this point, those 7 mile runs were just about as fast as my current race pace.  Suffering along, sweating, feeling the searing heat, sucking eggs, this was mental torture, not to mention physical torture.  But alas, I see the water station up ahead and I need some.  But when I got to the water and grabbed a cup, I stopped and drank.  I stopped running and began walking.  I began walking with my water cup (I never do this in a 10K).  I doubled over for a chance to get more oxygen, dumped the remainder of the water over my head, and then pushed on.  How many seconds lost in that, who knows.  Too many.  But I only had 1 1/2 miles to go.  Only that far but so many eggs in my body and now I've dropped behind my fellow running duo who had been suffering along with me.  They were up there, I was back here.  Anyway, need I go on with this report?  I eventually did drag myself across the finish line in a time one whole minute SLOWER than I had run last time.  And Kevin, the race director (thank you Kevin for your dedication to directing this race year after year) asks me how old I am.  I mean, at the moment, I'm sure I looked something like Igor, humped over, dragging by body out of the chute into some shade where I would eventually crumble and contemplate why I felt I needed to do this race.  Kevin was so excited when he found out I was 44.  He announces to everyone that Cindy has just run the 5th fastest master's women time on this course.  He shoves a list of women in my face, the list that shows the four faster times.  "Do you recognize any of those names?"  Yah, that one right there, #2, that's me.  Different last name, but same me.  I guess I've hit an age milestone because when I was called to receive my award (for which I am truly grateful despite my difficult race), he felt it necessary to tell everyone again how old I am, and again repeated that I had run the 5th fastest masters time.  He could not have known my simple goal that had been defeated, crushed and squished into the asphalt back at mile 3.

But one can't dwell on the past, I had two more races ahead of me.  The next race was the 10 mile run leg of the Santa Barbara Triathlon, which I was doing as a relay with two other remarkable female athletes.  I had 5 days to recover and try to taper into it, which included more swimming than running.  There is a different type of pressure when you're doing a relay, particularly when you are the anchor.  The final fate was in my hands.  So I considered this race important and more of a goal race.  A complication though, was that I had a final race, a hard, competitive one, the day after the triathlon.  I wanted to economize my effort in the 10 mile so that I ran only as hard as I had to, and feel good doing it, so that I had legs for the next day.  So the first step to this was to spend ample time sizing up my competition, and like, trying to intimidate them.  We arrived early on Saturday (this is now 9 days after the Westmonster, and 6 days after the tortured 10K.  Did I mention I am mentally scarred from that 10K?  I drank my Americano at 6:30 am.  I wouldn't be starting my run for about 3 hours, so I felt the caffeine was a good idea.  Hmmm.  More on that later.  I watched our amazing swimmer, Becca, go off in her wave with the likes of Gary Hall Jr. who was himself doing the swim leg of a relay.  He wasn't our competition though.  We were competing only against other all women teams.  Becca transitioned in an excellent time to our cyclist Tiffany, with only one all women team ahead of us.  I began to hang near the transition area checking out the other women relay runners.  I lurked behind palm trees watching.  I still had an hour and 45 minutes before my turn, so I remained outside, in dark places throwing darts with my eyes.  A zone bar down the hatch, a bit of water.  Finally time to warm up.  It was much cooler today.  Much cooler, but holy cow it was humid and heavy.  The warm up was slow, slow, slow.  It was time to move into the transition area and join my fellow relay competitors.  Stretch, lots of time to stretch, but the pressure was building.  I slipped my Newton's on and continued to size up the women around me.  Soon the first relay cyclists began to arrive, all men's teams at first, but Becca and I watched in eager anticipation to see if any all women's team cyclists arrived before our Tiffany.  Man  #1, man #2, men #'s 3, 4, 5, hmmm, is that next one a man, no female, wait is that Tiffany.  Becca yells Cindy I think that's Tiffany coming, wait, I'm not sure.  Was she wearing that color?  My adrenaline totally surged, I ripped off my shirt to get ready to grab the timing chip from Tiffany's ankle, and ... no, not Tiffany.  It was another man.  Tiffany doesn't look like a man, but from a distance with a bike helmet, it can be hard to tell.  So, man #6, and oops, there's the first female and it was evident that I would have at least one to catch.  But no other females appeared until our Tiffany arrived and she was on the verge of tossing her cookies.  I could not let my team down.  They've already gutted it out for me.  It was my turn to return the favor.  Timing chip exchanged, and I was off on my 10 mile out and back.  Bouncy, bouncy in my Newton's and fresher legs, pink lulu, and shamelessly passing all the poor souls who were competing in the complete event.  I did feel a bit guilty that I was only doing the run and they were doing the whole thing and I was passing them mercilessly, while offering the encouragement that "Don't worry.  I'm on a relay. You're doing great!"  Mile one, nice.  I passed the team that was ahead of us.  Mile two, still pretty nice but I began to pull back on my pace to save something for tomorrow.  Mile three, uphill through Shoreline Park up to Mesa Park, steady, feeling decent, love passing all these people.  Mile four.  Where the heck is the bathroom!  Now!  From no where, it was the curse of the caffeine.  I had to go now.  Um, and it wasn't #1 that I needed to do.  I was running up the hill still but was past the park and into the neighborhood.  Could I duck into some one's yard?  I tried to but there wasn't enough cover.  But up ahead I found a slanted fence, a tree, a few bushes and an open gate and I was on it.  Off the course into the bushes for my first pit stop (the key word here is "first").  Back on course, still mile four, but now I have time to make up.  I began re-passing people and in some cases the conversation that ensued required me to admit I had to make a stop in the bushes.  Onward toward mile five and the turn around, yes, believe it or not, I needed a bathroom again quick (it had only been a mile since the last one).  This time I found refuge in a port-a-potty, but it wasn't a quick pit stop.  This is crazy.  Time is ticking off the clock, people are moving ahead of me, maybe one of the women's relay people, and here I sit.  Finally, out of the john and back toward the finish line.  As I once again re-passed people, I heard the snickers.  Ah, she had to stop in the port-a-potty.  Focus, but with the time lost I could no longer afford to hold off on my pace.  The tempo increased significantly and soon came mile 6.  Mile six brought another pit stop.  This time I had to run off course to the bathroom and more time lost, lots of time lost.  Panic, frustration, disbelief, pressure, and GI cramping.  This was becoming a nightmare.  Can I wake up now?  Mile seven was ok, nice and hard, passing, passing, passing, trying to catch up to a virtual time somewhere ahead of me.  Mile eight, I might make it without another stop.  Mile nine, another stop was indeed required.  Bathroom by the pier.  That makes a grand total of 4 stops.  Mile ten was the finish line, and by some miracle, a victorious finish line.  Becca and Tiffany were so excited.  Oh my gosh, you ran so fast.  John however, was looking a little confused.  I think I must have just stared at my teammates with some kind of weird crinkle in my brow.  Their expectations must have been different than mine.  I was at least 5 minutes off my intended time.  We did however win by almost 9 minutes.  Alright, so race number three was interesting but ended in victory, but unfortunately left me more tired and drained ... literally ....

Later that same afternoon it was off to Irvine.  We drove down to stay the night.  Race number four was the USATF Southern California Championship Road Mile.  That's a mouthful.  Only one mile.  Straight and flat, and as fate would have it, with the wind.  I was competing for prize money in the Master's Elite women division.  By this time though I must admit I lacked all manner of confidence.  There was no good reason why I should have a good race.  I was still dehydrated, it was another stinkin' hot day, my legs were dead, and I was facing fast women.  Fast women.  Based on the previous year's times, I would have to run a sub 5:10 to have a chance at getting at least third.  I knew I could do that, but I was fairly sure I wouldn't do that today.  A long warm up later, in the growing heat of the morning, Sunday, it was time for my race.  They bunched the open elite, master's elite, and senior elite (over 50) women all in the same race but not pitted against one another.  So everyone knew who was who, they placed an "O", "M", and "S" on our backs to differentiate.  The command would be runners take your mark, and then the gun.  What the heck?  These girls, there were 13 in my race, took off in an all out sprint.   At least that's what it felt like to me.  Are you kidding me?  Some of you are as old as I am, are you really going to maintain this ridiculous pace?  I was like almost last for at least 1/2 mile.  The first quarter clock read 1:12 for me, ummm.  Are you guys going to slow down?  I did.  The 1/2 mile was a more realistic 2:32, but I was thrashed and bascially still in shock by the pace.  There were 3 "M"'s ahead of me running in a cute little bunch, right there.  They were right there but they kept staying right there and I wasn't with them.  Three "M"'s ahead of me means I get no money.  Can I quit now.  This has been a long two weeks.  I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm thirsty, I want to cry, too dehydrated though so no tear would come out.  Darn it.  But there is life in the anaerobic realm of a mile.  Somewhere before the 3rd quarter one of the "M"'s began to drop speed and I felt like I was gaining speed.  Zip, passed her, dropped her like a bad habit, and since I could no longer feel my hands or feet (because they went numb from oxygen debt), I figured I'd just run harder.  Passed a few others.  I wanted that next "M."  I'm gaining, I'm going faster than she is, I can do it.  But alas, the stupid finish line came too soon.  The first thought that swept across my mind as I crossed the finish line was "I did it."  I did 4 races in 11 days.  A little smidgen of money wasn't a bad thing either.  My time was no where near sub 5:10.  It was in fact 5:18.  So there you go.  Third in the master's elite women category, 2nd in my age group.  And John completed his race in amazing fashion with a 5:20.  It was a lovely trip.  Time to rest.

The Westmonster 5K

The air hung in the warm moisture of August in the foothills of Montecito.  Nestled there in its shaded glory is the Westmont campus.  It is quiet, like a forest padded by pine needles, the air stays calm, and the sky is fabulous.  Westmont boasts a cross-country course that truly is that.  In a day where everyone's looking for a personal record, there are fewer and fewer courses that offer you nothing close to that.  Westmonster boasts a course that other college cross-country teams prefer not to run.  After all, it leaves too many runners in tears.

I love the name of the race, Westmonster.  It has multiple meanings and sounds kinda cool.  There is a hill on the course (well, as it turns out, there are MANY hills on the course) that hits in the middle of the second mile.  The 15% grade is nicknamed the "Monster."  Yes, fitting.  I love the Monster.  It sucks everything you had left right out of you, gnaws slowly on your lungs and heart, picks pieces of your soul and will away until you simply wonder if you will not just drop dead right there and roll back down to the observatory.

So, last Thursday evening I arrived with my son to the Westmont campus for my second consecutive Westmonster 5K.  Now, just a side note, it is August, it is late afternoon on a muggy, hot day.  The time of day that acts as a funnel, taking the rising heat and humidity and concentrating it into an impossible summer heatwave.  Now having said that, I should also admit that it was only 80 degrees.  It was humid, making it feel like 90 degrees, but as you can see, I have become a coastal wimp.

So as I was saying, I arrived early to the campus so I could walk much of the course.  Although it covered basically same area and terrain as last year, the course had been rearranged this year and I had yet to find out if it was going to be harder or easier.  I took my time on the first loop as I walked, noting the subtle and sometimes not so subtle inclines and declines.  There was dirt, gravel, sloped grass, some kind of powder dust that was the consistency of flour, flat, firm pavement, meandering sidewalks, sudden turns off the main path onto hidden, shadowy trails.  There were even a few lovely U-turns or close to it.  I noted with moving discomfort that there appeared to be more uphill than downhill, but that's because the Westmonster gives you one sweet gift: a final mile of almost all downhill.  Of course the downside to that is the first two miles take almost everything and give nothing back, and then tops it off with the Monster.

So the walking of the course was productive and having made all the mental notes I could afford, I spent the next half hour warming up.  The warm up left me feeling hot, drenched and thirsty and I decided to stretch until the start.  I bypassed my typical routine of strides and drills knowing that I would likely feel the lack of these within that first mile, but didn't want to risk loosing too much precious energy at the end of an already long day.

Jessica Meyers Left, Cindy Abrami Right

So off we went, starting on a slight down slope which rolled right into a sharp upslope and a right turn toward the Eucalyptus lined trail ahead.  As expected, I didn't feel too sharp in my first mile.  I think my warmup was inadequate but on the other hand, it kept me from going out too fast.  However, I was rather surprised to find myself being passed by all sorts of guys and I had two females ahead of me.  But when I race, at some point I quickly have to let everything go that I don't have control over, and run my own race, which I do have control over.  I happened to be all too familiar with this course, and likely the others weren't.  I would soon have the pleasure of picking them off as they learned the hard way that the only way to run the Westmonster is to economize your effort carefully.  As we rounded a practice field and were filtered onto the back powder dust trail I began to calm a bit.  I still had the two girls ahead of me, but I just sort of hung back and watched and listened.  You can tell a lot by a person's breathing pattern.  The trail turned sharply to the left and began to ascend a gravel road back toward the heart of the campus.  This began a long uphill stretch that lasted for close to a mile but was at least on level paved ground for the moment.  I felt good going up the hill which was shaded by a canopy of trees, and soon passed one of the girls (Becky I would later learn).  I remained close on the shoulder of the other female still in a bit of a testing mode to see what she had to offer compared to what I was holding back.  Our pavement came to an end and after the shortest slight downhill, we turned sharply to the right onto a dirt and gravel path and continued up and into the middle of the campus.  Across a footbridge, along pine needles under massive evergreens, and finally we were spit out onto a concrete path near buildings, across a grass lawn, and curled around to the left as we finished loop number one.  It was at this point that I decided I no longer need to test my female competitor but decided to challenge her.  I passed her on the inside as we ran past the starting line back up the steep hill.  This time at the top of the hill we turned sharply left, continued up and eventually curled back around through the middle of the campus again.  I knew the Monster was only meters away and I began the mental preparation as we ran across a shaded trail.   I gave myself a moment of recovery, actually letting my competitor think she had a chance to pass me back, but I knew that wasn't going to happen.  Boom, out of the trail, across the sidewalk, across the grass, and steered right by volunteers, there lay the Monster.  I settled into the reality, dropped my chin down, leaned forward into the slope, shorten my stride, picked the pace I would keep, kept the pace and powered up.  I waited for that moment to hit.  To feel that sense of defeat.  This time, it never came.  This time I beat the Monster and I put distance between me and she that followed.  All that was left was the final mile.  The final mile isn't all bliss as it has an awkward and difficult U-turn to the right, covers a multitude of surfaces, but at least it offered that much needed bit of recovery along with the knowledge that the finish was within steps.  After the final stretch around the tennis courts and along the side slope of the grass, I entered the stadium and completed most of one lap on the track.  The Westmont track has a digital scoreboard of sorts which displayed the running clock so I didn't have to look at my watch to discover my time.  Slower than last year by 12 seconds.  I quickly had to conclude that the course was indeed harder this year, but who really knows.  It's cross-country and comparing cross-country races can be like comparing oranges and apples.  I gave it what I had today and I gave it what I could in the heat.  It was fun.  It was actually fun.

This was the first of four races for me that come all within 10 days.  Ha, it usually takes me 14 days to recover from one race, let alone handle four in 10.  But I'm thankful to have it in me ... or to at least see if I have it in me.

The Westmonster is an awesome 5K.  It is now dubbed by its organizers as Santa Barbara's toughest 5K.  It raises funds for the Westmont athletic programs and the Westmont athletes were out in droves cheering us on.  They lined much of the course with youthful exuberance and made it even that much more enjoyable.  It is well organized, the course is well marked and directed, the timing was accurate and to top it off, there was a fabulous catered healthy dinner enjoyed by athletes, volunteers and spectators, as the sun began to set over the horizon.  And it was a spectacular sunset.  Just beautiful.
Presidio Sports posted an online article and video which can be viewed at the following link:  Ho, Abrami Knock Out Tough Westmonster