So Fast in My Brain

The only thing keeping my going with this whole marathon training game right now is the spirit of others. In the last two weeks, my friend Matt completed the Leadville 100 miler, in the coldest, dankest conditions of its history (I will have to devote a blog post all its own to that epic experience of crewing for Matt), and my brother Danny finished the Green Lakes Endurance 100k near Syracuse New York, taking third place male overall – I have to throw the caveat “male” in there, since happily a female finished in the top three.

So my measly 50-something miles per week (per week!) don’t seem like they should be really that much of a stretch.

Last Saturday was a 2:40 run on the Appalachian trail in West Virginia, another reminder of the softness that comes with road training. On Sunday, I started out the run feeling glorious. The weather was beautiful and I was listening to my mp3 player for the first time in a long while. I headed out to the C&O Canal Trail, which is a flat dirt track that winds between the scummy canal on one side and the Shenandoah River on the other. I felt like I was booking it – I watched the Olympic marathon the night before, and in my mind I was Samuel Wanjiru-fast, pounding the ground and moving so fast it was maybe even hard to see me. At the second mile, I looked at my watch: 8 minutes, 50 seconds. (Wanjiru was running 4:50s.)

Um.

I am so fast in my brain. Perhaps my body will catch up eventually.

Baby Steps to Balance

Getting the balance right is an issue that keeps coming up a lot for me. In running, in life, in work. It’s an overused thing to say, I know - and perhaps I should keep my thoughts to a letter to the editor of Yoga magazine - but I can't help but recognize recently that this is a constant life-classroom challenge for me.

How do I best strike the right chord between thinking and doing, between being uber-engaged and healthily detached, between moving around and being still, between maintaining momentum and knowing when to wait?

In short, how do I fill my life with doing the things that make me happy and are, in some way, ultimately useful – to me or someone else?

The other night, while stretching my back and neck on the living room floor after coming in from a run, I came across some balance exercises. In typical fashion for me, I read them and thought dismissively, “How easy.” Also in subsequently typical fashion, I tried them and found out they weren’t. Standing with one foot directly behind the other is so easy, while doing it with your eyes shut is so hard!

This air-guitar saga (otherwise known as my slight neck injury, which is nearly healed) has taught me a lot – including how out of my league are people who deal with chronic pain and still manage to smile and relax into the world. It also suggested to me that perhaps I have been putting manic energy towards running to avoid some other gaps in my life. So I am planning to make some changes.

I am also more determined to find balance within my running itself. I have joined this running club, a group of finely tuned, Type-A Washington DC speedsters. The coach George preaches balance, but his runners seem to favor nonstop, grueling intensity – on the track, on tempo, etc. So it is up to me to actually follow my rules and find my own way.

Last night at the track workout, the coach divided us up into six groups for repeats – 1x1600, 2x1200, 2x800, 2x400. I usually hang desperately onto the back of Group 2, but last night, I decided to go with Group 3. For the first time, I felt like I was finally able to find a regular rhythm – I focused on trying to find a hard, relaxed pace during the first third, and then kicked it in when I could on the last 30%. I also quit early, since I wanted to be mindful of my back, calf, and the fact that too much speedwork does not a happy Wednesday make.

Here were the splits:
1600: 6:47
1200s: 5:03, 5:04
800: 3:14

Not the most blazing speed, but an effort I am quite proud of nonetheless. And a suggestion of balance – between intensity and rhythm, between too much and too little, and between competition with others and remaining true to myself.

Baby steps to get there.

Back.

It's 95 degrees on a Wednesday afternoon. I am at home in my apartment in Washington DC. I am wearing a neck brace and running shorts. I just watched a video about a 13-year-old girl who ran the JFK 50-miler, and I cried.

I cannot run. I spent the last two weekends at family functions, and both weekends I pulled the same upper back muscle playing air guitar on the ground of the dance floor with my eight year old nephew. Go figure. I'm a one trick pony.

What more auspicious time to revive my running blog?

Quick recap: I came back to the US from Malawi late last fall, moving to Washington DC. Jimmy joined me on Thanksgiving day, flying in on an all-nighter from South Africa. Later that morning, ran together down Connecticut Avenue, in shorts and gloves, the wind blowing and red leaves blowing all around the sidewalks. It was delicious.

I really enjoyed running this winter back in the US. I enjoyed the running paths and the clean, smooth sidewalks, and not being the center of attention to anyone but me. I didn't run the Houston Marathon, since my brother Danny and friends talked me into the Rocky Raccoon 50k near San Antonio in late January. I think I sooth-sayed that this might happen, and abracadabra, it did. The 50k was fantastic, if brutal. It was the first time I had run real trails in two years, and I paid for it with a number of crash and burns; luckily a lot of the trail was lined with these nice soft brush bushes that were like a big baby buggy when I fell.

Danny, Matt and Dave ran the 100k, which was more than twice as brutal. I must say that watching them snuffed out any desire I had kindling to run 50 miles.

In March, I ran the Nation's Half Marathon in Washington DC. I trained alone, with a 9-week plan from the internet. Because it is winter and I am a baby, I did most of my speedwork on the treadmill. But I did speedwork, which is a big step for me. And it paid off. I ran my second best half marathon time (1:37) on a much hillier course than my previous PR of 1:36. This is a long way from where I want to be (sub-1:30), but it is a start.

In April I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon and joined the Pacer's Miles Ahead program. Pacers is the Austin running groups on steroids. Twice the Type-A personalities, twice the intensity, twice the distance. But some nice people, and good reason to head to the track once a week and put some muscle behind my long runs. I am looking for a marathon personal best at Marine Corps, a sub-3:30.

After that is, I get back from this problem with...well, my back.

The Sound (of Dr. Dre) and the (Lack of) Fury

Today I did 5+ Ambassador Hill repeats. The “+” means that, at the top of each hill, I would turn the corner to the right and run tempo for about another 100 meters or so before slowing down. Then I would turn right again downhill and circle back around at the bottom. Then rinse and … you guessed the rest. Each hill was about 400m and the entire loop close to a mile.

I did 4.5 loops this way. The .5 was the last uphill, which I decided to just kill myself on. I don’t know why; I started the workout intending to take it easy because I was tired, but somehow I got all riled up during that fourth loop and thought I would just blow it out. I had been running the uphills at about 2:08-2:12. The last one was 1:57. YES! (That’s for you, Matt.)

On the way up the last hill, I found myself wishing, as I often do at moments where I need some intensity, that I were an angrier person. I felt like, if I were more filled with rage (even at some deep, subconscious level), then it could be an asset for me when I need to do something really tough. I often feel that my willingness to accept life as it comes allows me to be a little wussy when it comes to pushing through pain. I can talk myself out of nearly anything. I say things like, “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” or “Don’t worry. You tried your best.”

Having a perpetually positive attitude can kill you in a competition, despite what they say. I need to develop my negative ‘tude.

Last year, I saw this in action. When I fell apart in the last few miles of the Houston marathon, I kept urging myself, “Get mad!” It was my last ditch attempt to unearth some energy, some spark in my battered legs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much to be enraged about by then – other than the fact that I couldn’t get mad.

So today I put on Dr. Dre to get me in the mood on that last hill; I thought maybe I could latch onto some of his chauvinistic rage, but somehow, hearing about how many houses and vehicles he had just wasn’t lighting the spark in me.

So on the way up, I considered (thoughtfully, of course) what to be angry about. I thought that injustice in Africa was a good one (because I do believe that, more than anything else, that is what we should be railing against), so I worked on that. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t drum up the emotion. It didn't help that every Malawian around me was grinning and giving me thumbs-up as I panted by. Grrrrr!

But other traits seem to be bringing progress. I have been really committed to running lately – not obsessive, like I get sometimes (I think that is due to giving myself enough time to train). I should log just at about 50 miles this week, and I did 13 Sunday with more than half at marathon goal pace. 7.5 miles at MGP is not a stellar accomplishment – especially when I know I have to get up to more than 26. But I can benchmark it against my past training; last year, at 12 weeks out from the race, I still had a hard time running 5 at MGP. Right now I still have 19 weeks until Houston.

This time around with marathon training, I am upping everything. Just a little bit (another example of the peace-loving moderate in me). My time at Houston in 2006 was 3:32 – just a little bit slower than the 3:30 I was aiming for. So I figure that if I simply dial up the training time, the mileage, and the intensity, I will be ok.

Of course now I find out that Danny and Matt are running Bandera 100k the week before Houston – and there is a fantastic 50k there that I have been wanting another shot at. Maybe I can get my 3:30 at another race, I am already thinking.

I am such a sucker. And that makes me furious.

Trash Day

Today was trash day in Area 9. This morning when I went on my easy run, I saw about 15 different groups of guys – from old men to young boys – going through the garbage of the people who live in our neighborhood. They were all carrying bags that were spilling over with plastic bottles, plastic jumbos (grocery bags), and other things that could be either used or sold for pennies. I didn’t see any food, but I’m sure they were pulling that out too.

Last Thursday, I encountered a plastic-bottle man walking through one of the fancier neighborhoods in Lilongwe. The plastic-bottle man is literally covered with plastic bottles; he has them draped on ropes over his shoulders, arms and across his back. He spends his day walking the streets, and calling out in a sing-songy voice for people to bring their bottles out. Occasionally, he comes across some in the trash or gets lucky as someone brings them out from behind a gate. I don’t know what he can get for them, but it can’t be more than a dollar or two. This for a full day’s work.

The trash guys and the plastic-bottle men are always friendly. They smile, and if their hands aren’t full, they give me a thumbs up when I run by. I thought one of them was going to join me today, but he thought better of it at the last minute. I must admit I was relieved. After all, how would I feel being beaten down the street by a man covered in plastic?

Also out in full force during my run this morning were the Learner (note the capital “L”) drivers. A driver’s license is a coveted, if rare, commodity in Malawi. Even though only the tiniest fraction of Malawians actually own cars, having a driver’s license can be the ticket to a wealthier future, especially for young men.

Transportation is a major industry in Malawi; with a driver’s license, you can be a driver for an organization (nearly every company, government agency or NGO has them), drive a minibus (little minivans, which are the way 99% of people get around), steer a truck or pilot a lorry. Malawi has an agriculture-based economy, so there is always something that needs hauling: corn, tobacco, vegetables, farming equipment, people.

Getting the money together to pay for driving lessons (about $200) is quite a feat in and of itself. Once you manage, you choose from a myriad of schools, where you must attend lessons for 40 days. That’s right: 40 days of driving lessons! And I swear that every school does half of its lessons in my neighborhood. Because it has paved roads and relatively light traffic, it is ideal for student driving. Which makes it not, of course, ideal for pedestrians.

Running while driving school happens around you feels uncomfortably like a game of Frogger where everyone is watching to see you go splat. At every corner, people in groups of about 10-12 are sitting and waiting for their turn at the wheel. To be more efficient -- and because most schools only have 1-2 cars, often beat-up pieces of crap -- the cars load up with pupils at the office, cramming as many as possible into the car. Once they get into the practice zone, they then drop most of them off, carrying only a comfortable number of students for each pass around the neighborhood. Today there must have been 10 schools going at one time.

During my entire route today, drunken-like cars were swerving to avoid bicycles, walkers, and each other. They would back up and forward in fits and starts. They’d barrel off the road and onto the dirt, spinning their wheels before lurching forward. Two of the companies, I have noted with trepidation, are named “Spot Success” and “Quick Pass.” I try to especially steer clear of them.

While running, I scurried by every car, giving each one as wide a berth as possible. Sometimes I found myself running in the middle of the road, between two passing cars. Once I nearly got mowed over by a truck that suddenly decided to practice driving backwards. A couple of times I got huge cheering sections when I ran by groups waiting for their turn to drive.

I ran for 45 minutes and barely even noticed.

***

The Sunday 2-hour long run felt sluggish again this weekend. It felt much longer than it was, and towards the end I complained to Jimmy that I didn’t know why I felt so bad. I thought, I said, that I had “gotten over the hump.”

He laughed. “What?” I demanded. “Janie,” he said, like he was addressing a small child who should definitely know better but still needs to be told: “There is no hump.”

Oh yeah.

But today, I thought again, I am over the hump. I measured out a mile in the neighborhood and thought I would clock myself running easily, just to see what kind of times I am running at a pace that feels very relaxed. Both ways, I hit sub-8:30 miles, which makes me think that either a) my car speedometer is calibrated incorrectly or b) I am in better shape than I thought I was, meaning 8-minute miles is a very realistic goal for me at the Houston marathon in January.

Either could be possible. One is more likely than the other. But for the sake of rounding things up, I’m going with the latter.

Five Ambassador's Hill Repeats

I am finally reaching a point where running is feeling more a comfortable part of the rhythm of life. It has taken about 6 weeks, but my legs are feeling less like squeaky wheels and more like…well, I can’t take that metaphor to its logical conclusion, as the correct term is nothing close to “well oiled machines.” But I can say that daily running is feeling more like a given, as opposed to a daily slog I have to wring out of a lethargic soul. When I get moving, it takes less time for me to get into the running mindset than it did even a month ago, and I am actually enjoying the running part more and more – instead of just anxiously awaiting its end.

Yesterday as I was running I was thinking about how lucky I am to be aware of the phases my body and mind have to progress through in order to get to this point. If I didn’t, I would certainly capitulate after the first few painful runs. I totally understand how beginning runners try and quit; I simply count myself lucky that I was stupid enough to refuse to give up running despite the loneliness and misery during those first months of my first marathon training in 1995.

The running journey – mind, body, soul – is so enigmatic and difficult to explain to others. During coaching for the Austin marathon, I remember begging my first-time marathoners who were threatening mutiny after 3 weeks into the program: “Give it 8 weeks. Please!” Why, they would ask. Will the pain go away? I would always feel at a loss for words, and stumble out with something true but hardly comforting: “No. But you know all those things that feel terrible and painful now? You’ll be happy about them then!” Eyebrows raised, more than a few were known to back away, as you would in the presence of a crazy person, and never return.

And rightly so. It is kind of crazy, this evolution that happens when running regularly becomes -- well, regular again. Somehow, I start associating morning soreness with a positive feeling about myself. I relate constant hunger to an active physical engine. Oddly enough, even not-so-healthy sensations – getting lightheaded when I get out of a chair too fast in the afternoon after a hard morning run, for instance – reminds me that I am pushing myself past what is comfortable.

And strangely enough, that feels normal.

I was thinking about all this yesterday as I ran 5 repeats of the Ambassador’s hill, which I have christened such because its last 10 meters pass the house of the American Ambassador to Malawi.

You might think that, being in the 11th poorest country in the world, the American Ambassador’s house in Malawi would be a bit understated. This, however, does not seem to be the case, unless you consider 1970s cheesy architecture to be inconspicuous. The house is a one-story lodge-type building, with some palm trees and tennis courts out back. About 5 SUVs hulk in the driveway. The best way to share the image with you is to hearken back to the 2005-2006 season of “24.” Remember President Logan’s pad: The sprawling one with lots of rooms? The one with wood paneling on the ceilings and walls that seemed to be there simply to muffle the conspiracies? Not that I really have any idea, since my encounters have only occurred when I am about 100 meters away and in a hypoxic state.

But anyway, all that is to say that there is a killer hill just outside his house. I am now reinstating a mid-week medium-long run with some hard running in the middle – hill repeats now, and probably progressive pace or speedwork later on. So yesterday, I sandwiched the hill repeats between two segments of easy running.

I made it back to my car after an hour and twenty minutes. When I got there, my legs were tired and twitchy, the bottom of my face was covered -- beard like -- in dirt, my eyes were stingy from sweat, and I was dehydrated.

The dominant thought in my mind as I stood by the car, tying to catch my breath? How nice to feel normal again.

Bless Those Hashers!

I ran with the Lilongwe Hash House Harriers last night. The HHH are a worldwide club – “Drinkers with a running problem” – and a nice point of familiarity that you can find in almost nearly city around the world. Most weekly runs consist of a track that has been laid with flour earlier in the day, with various checkpoints and dead-ends along the way. At the end there are silly songs, mockeries of various people for no good reason, and – of course – plenty of beer.

Last night there was a big group of about 40 people. The run started off in spurts; for the first few checkpoints we would run for 3 minutes and then wait around to regroup for another 5. But eventually we got into a good running rhythm. Jimmy was running in the front pack with some guys who were showing off for each other, while I was stuck somewhere behind in no-man’s land. Eventually I decided to try to bridge the gap (I won’t deny simulating Paul and Phil Tour de France commentary as I did so) and caught them. The last 15 minutes felt like a hard tempo run with other people around to push you. Which was, fantastically, exactly what it was.

Another thing I like about hash runs is the people you meet. Last night during the run I met a guy who had just spent 14 months in Iraq working on a democracy project; he was vacationing in Malawi and on his way to Nigeria. (“Yep,” he joked, “Democracy in Iraq, check. Now it’s time to move on to Nigeria.”) He told me about running in Baghdad around Sadaam Hussein’s palace with an armored tank and four guards. “Sure beats the treadmill,” he said.

I also met the veterinarian who lives down the street from us. I had seen the sign outside her clinic but, because of the big walls with barbed wire that we live behind, had never seen past her gate. She is British but has been in Malawi for 12 years. She told me that there is a group that does long runs every Saturday morning – “with a big breakfast afterwards.”

If I can’t have Magnolia Café, maybe it’s the next best thing!