Chicago Marathon: A Success Story

Put in the work. Do the job. Reap the rewards.

If only running a marathon were that easy.

But sometimes it is.  For me, this time, in Chicago, it was.

When I say “easy,” I am talking about running between 40 and 60 miles per week for months at a time. So no, not exactly “easy.” Frankly, the work required was daunting—but I took it one day at a time, and I did it. When I was told to do core work after an hour-and-a-half workout, I did it. Drills, lunges, speed work, tempo runs, doubles, long runs—I did all of it. And when I was told to rest, I did that, too. Because why hire a coach if you don’t follow his instructions? He was the expert, and I was relying on his expertise to make me faster. Therefore, I had to do what he said. The worst possible thing would be to cross the finish line at Chicago looking over my shoulder at runs I had fluffed or core work I had skipped, wondering if they would have made a difference. Regret always leaves a sour taste, and I wanted Chicago to taste victory-sweet.

However, you can be the hardest worker on the planet and not even make it to the start line. I got lucky. Bad injuries happen to good athletes. No matter how health- and safety-conscious you are, nothing can guarantee that one day, some joint or muscle in your body won’t suddenly rebel, or maybe you’ll trip, or you might accidentally drink out of the same water glass as a kid who had bronchitis. You just never know.

So I got lucky—really lucky. I didn’t get injured. I didn’t get sick. Therefore, the only thing in my way was my own brain, and I was determined to smack that sucker around if it tried to give me problems.

Which brings me to the night before the marathon. I was staying with Coach J___’s family and another teammate in an Airbnb—basically a rich family’s very lavish apartment, which they had rented out to us—and so I had heard him giving other athletes pre-race talks all day. He had cooked us dinner, and now that it was closing in on my bedtime, I was starting to worry that he might not intend to give me a “talk” at all. What if he didn’t? After all this very specific, very instructive training, was I supposed to just run this on my own? Could I manage that? At long last I finally asked him outright. After a bit of jesting derision, he asked me what I thought I was going to run, what my body thought I was going to run.

I don’t like listening to my body, because my body complains a lot. However, based on how I had been running lately, I was pretty confident I would PR this race. The question was, by how much. To date, I had only managed to drop a few minutes at a time at any given race, so I assumed that this race would be no different. In fact, I thought it was quite ambitious of me to say I expected to run around 3:10-3:13. My last marathon, just the previous fall in NYC, had been 3:18 high. In my opinion, eight minutes was a lot of time to drop in less than a year.

In any event, that’s I told him: I thought I’d run somewhere between 3:10-3:13. And here was the defining moment of my whole Chicago marathon experience. J___ looked straight at me and shook his head. “Wrong direction.” I looked at him strangely, so he clarified, “What A___ did today? 3:05? You can do that—if you want to.”

A___ was one of my teammates, whom J___ trained remotely since she lived in Connecticut. That very day, she had run the Hartford marathon in an amazing time of 3 hours and 5 minutes. I couldn’t believe J___ was telling me I could do that. Me? Really

Really, though, any shocked questions were just superficial thoughts. Inside my real brain, inside my heart of hearts, 3:05 had just become my new goal. If he thought I could do it, and I trusted him to know what I could or couldn’t do, then that was exactly what I’d go out there and try to do.

I immediately logged onto my computer and looked up A___’s Hartford Marathon results. From what I could tell, she averaged a pace of 7:06/mile. 7:06. That’s what I had to do. Oh boy.

Fast forward to the start line. This was a race of firsts, and one of those firsts left my hands empty, nervously clenching and unclenching. I had no iPod. This was the first marathon I would run without music. The lack of music didn’t make me nervous, because I had been training without music for most of my long runs, but it felt strange not to be holding anything. Plus, on top of that, I kept looking at my stupid Garmin watch, trying to make sure it didn’t go to sleep after it had finally picked up satellite signal. But then the national anthem started playing and I stopped paying attention—just like I have in so many other races. And by the time I looked down again, it was because I needed to start my watch because my foot was about to cross the first timing mat . . . and the thing had conked out.

Are you kidding me??? I thought. After all that, I’m going to have to run this whole race trying to calculate my pace times off of the course clocks? This time, however, the Garmin gods were on my side. I pushed the button to pick up satellite signal again, and in about fifteen seconds the watch clicked in. This was going to be my day.

The first few miles flew by. There were so many spectators that I had to start an internal chant to keep from being swept up in the fervor and excitement of the race. Relax. Relax. Relax. I felt good, but I needed to keep feeling good, and that meant controlling my pace, even though my body felt primed to go.

In our previous evening’s talk, J___  had indicated that I should take the first 5 miles easy and then settle into a rhythm for the next 8. At mile 13, I was to “throw down” a hard mile, and then ease up again and focus on picking up the pace in the first minute of every mile for the next 7 miles. At that point, there would only be five miles left. “And then,” he told me, shrugging, “it’s just how much you want it.”

The first 13 miles were honestly a cakewalk. All I had to do was count to five (“Five easy miles”) and then count to eight (“Lock in for the next eight”). I felt euphoric because the whole time, I could tell that my body had more to give. For that hard 14^th mile, the one J___ had told me to “throw down fast,” I cruised past runners, dreamily wondering if I could keep this pace up for the rest of the race. But I knew that was a pipe dream—I was only halfway done, and New York had taught me that those last six miles can feel like sixty—so I eased back up at the 14 mile marker and ate some of my jellybeans (which, while delicious and a much more palatable consistency than gel, require inconvenient amounts of chewing before ingestion).

Counting down the next 7 miles—and their corresponding 1-minute pickups, as assigned by J___—was a bit harder, because changing speeds mid-race is just . . . well it’s hard. It takes discipline. Fortunately, this was something I had done in workouts leading up to the race, so I was used to telling my legs to shut up and move.

And then there were five. Five measly miles. “At this point, it’s how much you want it,” J___ had told me the night before. And not only did I want it, I knew I had it. I had time in the bank, because I had averaged between 6:55-7:05/mile up until this point in the race, and somehow I still didn’t feel like death. I pushed the pace as hard as I dared, and at mile 25, when I saw J___ and his megaphone on the roadside, shouting at me to “just hang on,” I stopped wondering if I should keep holding back. Now was not the time to think. Now was the time to run.

The last 800m were excruciating. But the last 800m of any race are excruciating. The finish line is so close and yet so far. Your legs ache and your lungs strain and you know you’re almost there but the pain isn’t over yet, so you can’t let up. Shut up legs. Shut up legs. Shut up legs.

And then I was there. Across the finish line. I had envisioned this moment back at mile three, at mile eight, at nearly every mile in the first half of the race when I realized that I was running at sub-7:10 pace and I wasn’t even tired. Would I cry? Would I laugh? How would it feel? In those 3 hours, 3 minutes, and 42 seconds of running, I think I cycled through every single one of those emotions. I had played them all out, and so they were no longer available to me. I just felt done. And I was.

I had done it.

Race Length	Finishing Time	Average Pace	Overall Place	Gender Place	Age Group Place (F25-29)
26.2 mi	3:03:42	7:01/mile	1,300 / 40,567	156 / 18,390	55 / 3,987

Training for the Chicago Marathon: A Season in Review

They say it’s the journey that counts, so I decided to write this post before the Chicago Marathon, not after. Yes this race matters to me—it matters to me a lot—but it’s important to look back on all the work I put in and remember that I enjoyed (most of) it.

In no particular order, here’s a list of superlatives that offer a snapshot review of my training season:

Best Workout

In September, J___ gave me 5 x 1 mile 6:40, 6:30, 6:20, 6:10, 6:10. I nailed it within a second of every pace until the 6:10s . . . which I ran more like 6:05s. I have never hit a workout—alone—so spot on.

Worst Workout

I don’t remember the exact details, but there was a workout in the spring where I had to run 4 miles straight at some particular pace, and I got so frustrated after putting in what felt like sprint-level effort and missing the first two miles by nearly 15 seconds (each!) that I stopped and rested for two minutes before the third mile and then again before the fourth.  It felt like failure—well, it was failure—and failure is the worst.

Most Complicated Workout

On a track, in meters: 200-200-200-400-200-600-200-800-200-800-200-600-200-400-200-200. Oh and there were 200m recovery jogs between each of these. Dizzy yet?

Biggest Inspiration

Watching M___ run Boston literally like a machine: she ran textbook negative splits to finish well below 3:10. Incredible.

Biggest Sacrifice

Leaving my Thursday night writing group in order to attend running sessions at the track. Of course I made better friends with the Thursday night runners, which was awesome, but I miss my writing friends. Scheduling sucks.

Most Surprising Discovery

I’ll probably regret putting this in writing, but I actually like track workouts. (I think???) So long as my teammates are around of course!

Most Annoying Discovery

I need sleep—a lot of sleep. The higher my mileage climbed, the earlier I wanted to go (and often did go) to bed. Also, I don’t get super hungry during peak weeks; no, I get super hungry during taper weeks. How does that make sense?!

Proudest Accomplishment

I think this one’s a tie. On one hand, this was my first season of doubles, and I am proud to say that I didn’t skip a single one! (For those of you who might not know what a “double” is, your guess was probably right: it’s running twice in one day.) But I’m a pretty by-the-book person—if a coach tells me to do something, I intend to go do it as to-the-letter as I can—so I guess that’s not truly my proudest accomplishment. Therefore, I guess I’d have to say I am most proud of running 65 miles in one week . . . three times! Never in my life did I think I’d do that. Who knows what might come next!

On Losing

In running, we all say we're running against ourselves--against the clock. And quite honestly, I think most of us do this, and we do it well. We get our biggest thrills from dropping time from our last PR because, in our hearts of hearts, we know that most of us--not all, but most--aren't going to actually win any races, and if we do, it's just because the "faster folks" didn't show up. Very very few of us ever dream of becoming Olympic or professional runners, and even fewer of us actually become them.

So as a whole, I applaud runners for setting their sights on individualized goals, achieving them, and finding true pride and pleasure in those achievements. After all, the only people who really care if we run thirteen-point-one miles ten seconds faster than the last time we ran thirteen-point-one miles it is . . . well . . . us.

However.

Running is a race. And yes, you can race yourself, race the clock, and try to get faster, but you're only really trying to get faster to beat other people. That's what races are: events where everyone is trying to run faster than everyone else. Therefore, no matter how much time you may have dropped, no matter how big your PR, it still sucks to lose to someone you think you could or should have beaten. No amount of "hooray, I ran faster today" can assuage that.

Or at least that's how I feel.

This past weekend, I ran the Michelob Ultra Boston 13.1. Beforehand, my personal goal was to break 1:28. This was a goal I had set--but failed to achieve--back in the spring. Now, it was five months of grueling training later, and I was ready to go out there and do it. My coach's goal for me was to "execute," by which he meant to do everything right: to run the paces that I meant to run at the miles I meant to run them, to eat right, to hydrate right, and to keep my head on straight, all as practice for the Chicago Marathon, which is my true Goal Race, next month.

I knew, of course, that if I did all of these things correctly, I should break 1:28. And so I did. I PRed.

But if I don't sound happy about that, it's because I'm not. Well, I'm happy I PRed. Who wouldn't be? But I'm downright pissed that I came in 4th woman overall.

Let me explain.

While biding my time at the start line, a young woman standing beside me struck up a conversation. Where are you from? Are you here with anyone? Have you run a half marathon before? The usual runner's version of "Hello, my name is." She said she'd run three half marathons and was aiming to break 1:30. What was my goal time? Nervous about telling someone who was clearly in my "corral" (this race was too small for real corrals, so we all just seeded ourselves) precisely what time I wanted to run, I just said "Me too."

As it turns out, we both were lying.

When the gun went off, we simultaneously crossed the starting line and ran stride-for-stride for about . . . ten paces. Then, she took off. Ah, I thought. One of those. I figured I'd see her at the halfway point, struggling along, looking for all the world like she wanted to quit. And I did see her at the halfway point, but only because it was a partial out-and-back; she was at least a quarter mile ahead of me, having already turned around and running in the opposite direction. She looked strong and fast and professional with her fancy compression socks and matching headband. Damn it, I thought.

But I was going to run my race, and I knew if I tried to catch up to her, I'd risk being fried by the end.  So I continued to repeat what I had already chosen as my race mantra at mile 0.5: execute. Execute, execute, execute.

And execute I did. My first mile was 6:48, right where I meant for it to be. Miles 2 and 3 were a bit on the fast side, but I knew these were the miles I needed to use to lock into a pace for the majority of the race, so I was feeling skittish. Miles 4 through 6 were straight into a headwind along the coast--never good for one's mental state. Then the turnaround came, and I had been counting the women who were running toward me. I was 5th. Fifth, I thought to myself. That's not bad at all. That's actually pretty great. Sounds even better than Top Ten. The positive thoughts were flowing because miles 7 and 8 were back down the coast, the wind was gone, and in the stream of people flowing toward the turnaround, the occasional woman would smile at me and yell, "Way to go," or, "Looking strong."I did my best to smile back.

Around mile 7.5, I realized that we were passing the turnoff where we had arrived at the coast. Great! I thought. Presumably this meant that we'd be running with the wind all the way down the coast, and then probably turn off somewhere to get back to the racetrack. But then I saw the first place man coming toward me. His face looked like agony--agony I soon felt myself when I turned around yet again and started back into the wind. (I really ought to study race maps more closely.)

As if it weren't mentally grueling enough to try and keep a 6:40 pace while battling headwind, I was getting passed. Fortunately only by men, but it was disheartening to keep hearing footsteps approaching behind me and knowing that I'd soon be seeing the back of another runner. One tall very pale guy tried to strike up a conversation as he came up beside me, but I just couldn't do it, especially after he told me that he, too, had set out to break 1:30. (What was it with these people!?) He soon realized that I was not in any shape to converse and sprinted away.

At mile ten, it was time to, in the words of my coach, "Get down to business." I was pleasantly surprised to discover I did, in fact, have another gear. It wasn't a ton faster, but I could tell that I was picking up the pace, and that got my adrenaline going. Only three miles left, I started pep-talking myself. A 5k. That's all. Mile 11 was a handwritten sign, and mile 12 didn't have any sign at all.

Then it was mile 13. Go time.

There had been a woman wearing a green singlet in front of me for a good chunk of the race, but she was long gone, as was the winner, who must have been almost a mile ahead of me at the turnaround. I noticed I was coming up on the short woman in powder blue who had held second place, and miraculously, in front of her, I saw those socks. It was the girl from the start!

I picked up the pace yet again, but with a warning from my coach in the back of my head: Don't kick unless you can maintain it.

I passed the woman in powder blue, who--based on her gaspy breathing--clearly did not have a "final mile gear." Now it was just me and this other girl, and her turnover didn't look as fast as mine. I could catch her!

Don't kick unless you can maintain it.

I now had about half a mile left, and I was gaining, but I wasn't sure if I'd catch her in time. Come on, Allison, I coached myself. You've got this.

We were approaching the back of racetrack where the whole event had started. There couldn't be much distance left. A series of cones were arranged in a curve, which led up to the middle of the parking lot where the big bright blue Michelob Ultra finish line stood, beckoning. When we got to the cones, I kicked. This was it.

I rounded the bend on her heels, knowing that swinging out wide would cost me, and then I closed in beside her. The finish line was right there. I was in front, I had to be, by a stride or two. But then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur and heard her footfalls speed up. Suddenly she was right there beside me, and we crossed the finish line, and I genuinely didn't know which one of us had made it there first. But for some reason, in my gut, I knew she had won. This girl had beaten me.

And it's true. She had. Based on whatever judging happens at these sorts of casual racing events, her time--identical to mine--was ranked 3rd. I was fourth. I lost.

If I'm honest, even after a few days of congratulatory texts, phone calls, and Facebook posts for my Pr performance, I'm still smarting from the loss. It was right there. Third place. If only I had kicked later or pushed harder or leaned, I could have had it. A Podium Place. And sure, this wasn't an "important" race--it wouldn't qualify me for any Olympic Trials or win me any money--but I was right there neck-and-neck with a girl I could have beaten, and I lost.

I really hate losing.

Suffice to say, the Chicago Marathon--my true goal race--is next month, and if it comes down to a final straightaway, and it's me and another girl who may or may not have lied about her goal time in a perfectly amiable conversation at the start line . . . I won't be losing again.

Michelob ULTRA Boston 13.1

Race Length	Finishing Time	Average Pace	Overall Place	Gender Place	Age Group Place (F25-29)
13.1 mi	1:27:21	6:41/mile	25 / 1,474	4 / 869	1 / 243

Thoughts on Boston

Today was the day to sign up for the 2015 Boston Marathon. Well, more accurately, today was my day. Sign-ups for the race began on Monday, but that was for people who had beaten the qualifying time by 20 minutes or more. Today, registration opened to anyone who had beaten the qualifying time by 10 minutes or more. That's me.

I actually qualified for the Boston Marathon several years ago, back in 2009, when I ran my first-ever marathon in Pittsburgh. However, at that time, I didn't know much about running: the big names, the big races, the right way to prepare. I found a training guide online and followed it. . . . Well, I followed the long run schedule. Everything else was kind of a crapshoot. Which makes it that much more surprising that I managed to remain uninjured and run a time that qualified me for Boston.

However, when I say I didn't know anything about running, I really didn't know anything--including how registration for the Boston Marathon works. Somehow, I naively assumed that so long as I signed up before the registration period ended, I'd be guaranteed a spot. I'm not too sure where I got that idea from, but as you might expect, it didn't pan out.

Five years later, in November of last year, I ran the New York City Marathon. Once again, I finished in a time that would qualify me to sign up for Boston, and this time, I wasn't going to miss my opportunity. People train for years to run a Boston qualifying (or BQ) time, and here I was, lucky enough to qualify twice.

So I did it. Today I signed up for Boston 2015. Apparently, signing up doesn't mean that I'll definitely be running the race--everyone has to wait a week or two to find out whether we've made it into the final pool of registrants--but my immediate reaction was to post to Facebook. At long last, I was going to run this race!

Then I stopped myself. People train for years to run a BQ time. Was posting a celebratory, "Registered for Boston 2015!" bragging? Would it make someone else feel bad? Why did I want to post it at all? Okay, it would probably earn me a few pats on the back a few "thumbs ups." But I didn't run the race yet. Heck, I technically wasn't even on the roster. And frankly, signing up for Boston isn't something I should be celebrating. Qualifying for this marathon was never an overt goal of mine; it has simply been one happy side effect of achieving other goals: running my first marathon in Pittsburgh without stopping (mantra: don't stop) and then running my second marathon in NYC . . . faster (mantra: no excuses). Yes, I'm very excited to have the "Boston Experience" just like I was excited to have the "NYC Experience." But for me, it's not much more than that: just an experience to be had. Whatever time I run in Chicago next month means a heck of a lot more to me than registering for any race, no matter iconic.

So I decided I'll save my Facebook posts for October . . . after I run Chicago. And if anyone thinks that's bragging . . . well I sure hope I'll have something worth bragging about.

10 Reasons You Should Come Run in Jersey City

1. We're basically the 6th borough . . . and should probably be the 5th. (Have you been to Staten Island?)
2. Do you really want to run around Central Park? Again??
3. You can see this.
   
4. And this.
   
5. No obnoxious West Side Highway cyclists.
6. The Palisades are lovely, but sometimes you need a break from all those hills.
7. Plus, our park has more water fountains.
8. It's a great opportunity to try the PATH train (and check out your horoscope on the ride!).
9. You get to see the Lady Liberty up close and personal--no ferry ride necessary!
10. There's a ginormous beer garden. Right. Here.