Chicago Marathon

"Have you run Chicago?"

After hearing how many marathons I have run, the most common question is about Boston, but it seems to be about Chicago after that. I have never run this historic race despite having a house about 4 hours away. After knocking out Boston again in the spring, I felt it was time to finally do it. With a guaranteed entry time qualifier, I signed up. 

My goal was to run Two Hearted in June. I wanted to run it years ago but something always seemed to get in the way. First, I ran Grandma's, the next year I blew my ankle out playing volleyball, then the pandemic canceled the race, then I was stuck in China for the pandemic, and after that, I had to run Grandma's again to get the Boston qualifier. In 2023, I finally went to do the race. We drove up to the UP and set up camp. At packet pickup, the guy said. "We are all running the half tomorrow." I laughed. There was a half marathon, a full marathon, and a 50k. I was in the full. But the guy was not joking. Extreme heat and fire danger had them call off the longer races. I was livid. I had trained since Boston for this and wouldn't have come all the way for a half.

The race itself was insane. It is mostly a single-track trail, hilly, and muddy. We went out like a bullet and I found myself in 3rd. We were sprinting and I felt for sure the 1st place guy would come back. This continued for about 5 miles and the guy with me and I felt we had missed a turn. As we were debating going back, 1st place came running at us. We all had a little chit-chat on the trail and decided to press on. Soon we found the next mile marker and continued. At this point, I left the other guy and tried to chase 1st. I could see him occasionally in the woods but never got closer. At 9 miles I stepped into a mud bog, lost my shoe, and crawled around trying to get it back for a few minutes. I finished in 2nd on one of the hardest runs through the woods ever. The guys in 1st and 3rd were entered in the 50k. I felt robbed of my 87th marathon and another win.

Fast forward to fall. Summer training was adequate as I kept some miles going. I even ran a few 5ks in 18:05 and 18:35. These were the fastest times I have run in a 5k in more than a few years. After getting back to work I started running some with the XC kids and tucked in a few 20 milers, although not really following any workout plan. There was a big event happening I was slated for and when that was canceled, I decided to do something drastic. On Friday night, with one hour left before the race closed, I signed up for the Warsaw Marathon happening on Sunday morning, less than 36 hours in advance. Again, the weather was great and I jogged along, mostly running with some Irish guys, and taking it easy. They faded at the end but I enjoyed a nearly flawless outing, feeling completely in control, and finishing in 3:20 with no issues. With focus, I am sure I could have gone sub-3:10. 

The next weekend was Oktoberfest. While the calories and the lack of sleep did a number, I returned home with an issue in the gut. This caused me to miss work and stay in bed on Monday and while it lessened over the week, it was persistent. I flew Friday night to Chicago. After being awake for 25 hours, I crashed for 4 hours and then proceeded to ride a bike about 15 miles to the expo and various shopping experiences. Sleep again was elusive, and I walked to the start line. The hype was incredible, the internationalism high, and the weather freezing. The race started when it was in the 40s and never got much warmer. 

As the throw-away clothes began to fly, the countdown was on. My goal was minimal: enjoy Chicago. I was thinking around 3:10, and if that didn't work, back off from there. Things were not in my favor; Warsaw in my legs from two weeks before, Oktoberfest, the stomach issue, flying overnight, and that beast (lack of significant miles). I did not expect to make it without feeling the repercussions. 

Chicago is the only race I have run where there is a separate start for each corral (not wave). Starting in B corral (wave 1), we watched the top people take off, and then we were held there for a few minutes before being sent off. This just added to the sprint that was the start as, combined with the hype of the race, we now had a clear road ahead. The pace was blistering and I frequently tried to slow down, to little avail. With the tall buildings and numerous underpasses, GPS was somewhat fickle and it was impossible to get a good gauge on continuous running pace. By 10k I was significantly under my fastest goal time of 3:10. Knowing that later I would pay for this, I resolved to just keep it steady and see what happened. 

At halfway I was at 1:29:52, just eight seconds under the split for 3 hours. For a few miles after, doubt began to creep in. Slowly the legs felt a bit more fatigued and I figured that eventually, the wheels would come off. Yet through 20 miles the pace held. My resolve hardened and my goal was to just hit one mile split at a time, doing nothing significant. With about 5K to go, I started to feel it, and I caught the 3-hour pace group by 24 miles. The 25th mile was a challenge as my stomach cramp returned. Going any faster was not an option, but I could hold on. with 1.2 mi to go I dug in. If I could run the last mile in 7:35, I could make it in under 3. A little hill with 400m to go sent one last message that this was a fight. Cruising across the line, I was ecstatic. 2:59:10, a negative split. 

To run sub-3 after all that happened, at my age, on this training - I could not be happier. Things just came together, and there is something to be said about talent and experience. The aches and discomfort on the long walk to the bag drop reminded me that there is complete bliss in spending all you have in the moment; to be your best and to keep aiming high gives a power that can't be taken otherwise. A chilly post-race beer and ringing the Boston qualifier bell (literally you ring a bell) was a great ending. Luckily, I was staying close to the finish line and was home soon after. I even jogged about a mile to the subway to head out for the night!

A little over a year ago I was resolute that I would never break 3 hours again. Now I have done it twice since. And while that time is not what really matters, it does feel good to do at 43 what took me until my 5th try in my 20s to do - crack 3 hours. Marathon #88 is in the bag. Where to from here???

100 km Swim Club

 I hate swimming. I really do. 

That's why when the 100km swim challenge came up at my school, I had to do it. If it was easy, it wouldn't be a challenge for me. So I signed up and pledged to swim 100km in the school year. That is more than manageable; however, I would have several periods of significant breaks due to focusing on running. 

Swimming is gross. Would you take a bath after someone else in the same water? What if that bath had loads of other people in it (think middle school kids that find peeing in a pool hilarious)? What if the bath water for all these people wasn't ever changed? What grosses me out more: cruising over and over the same band-aid on the bottom of the pool or watching the glob of black hair tumble along the tiles from lane to lane? Perhaps it is the goober of snot that gelatinously floats along, recently discarded from that COVID case? A fair amount of people do not wipe properly after defecating, so where do you think the leftovers go?

Turning laps in a pool is not enjoyable; yes, I know there are those out there that call it therapeutic, even cathartic, but they are idiots. I don't care what others say. One must survive the pitch-black bike ride into school at 6am, to the icy pre-swim shower (why do I need to shower if the pool chemicals are strong enough to kill COVID and disease from fecal matter?).  Speaking of chemicals, have you ever walked into a pool and been hit with that overpowering smell of chlorine? You take comfort in it, rationalizing it as the solution to all that urine and butt particles you are about to swim through. But then you think, no, I can smell these toxic compounds from the doorway, what happens when I am sucking deep breaths 1/4 inch off the surface of that pool for an hour? How can that be good for the lungs? And that toxic water goes in my mouth and up my nose with every turn. Is that destroying my gut? What could survive in me after this chemo-like treatment?

Swimming is a lonely sport. In fact, it might be the only sport that is better alone. A run, a ride, golfing - these are more fun with others. Go bowling alone and you might have a diagnosable condition. Softball, volleyball, football, and baseball cease to exist without multiple participants. But put more than one person in a lane at a pool.... then someone is staring daggers at you, always scraping your feet with their hands, and making a flip turn the most terrifying, near-death experience of your day and you avoid the head-on collision. It's an activity that begs to be done alone. 

Swimming is the only sport where you have to shower before you workout, but after the workout, it isn't as necessary. What's that all about? Pop in headphones on a run or bike and you get hours of music, podcasts, or audiobooks to focus on. Otherwise, connect with nature and enjoy. Listen to the wind in the trees, or watch people go by outside of interesting buildings. In a pool, you hear nothing and see nothing except for that same black line below you and my breathing which sounds like a little kid blowing bubbles in this chocolate milk through a straw. 

I crept into a categorical black hole from kilometer 1 to 70. I just did it. Some days I didn't, and others I did, and slowly but surely the distance added up. The last bit was the hardest. First, after many months away from swimming due to training for Boston, I worked myself to 10K to go. Then the weekly count came out, and it said I had 13k to go. No, says I, I remember last week it twas 17 and I swam me the required distance I did to make it to 10 and that's that. No, says he, the boyo that runs it, you see, and we have us a wee bit of a debate. Jame, says I, has 10 to go and I'll be a frog's uncle if yous says to me that this wee lass is going to best me. Aye, says he, you was at 20K for the start and you dones 7 so be you at 13. Nay, says I, I'd been at 17 and done me a round 7 and I be at 10. Well, back and forth did we row and callith upon the Google history did I claim, and sure enuff did it prevail a column switch and miscalculation. 10k to go be-ith the magic number. 

Well, shit if I didn't face it from there. 10K and every morning sunny and warm, which is about as rare in Poland as a winning lottery ticket. I tried to fit in a swim after work and sure enough, the fire alarm went off. So waved down in the pool, I put on a long coat of fleece, hobbled out among the elementary students, and checked in for the roll call. Went back in and with minutes left of open swim, hammered 200m freestyle in my fastest time. Still, the day dicked me out of 500m. I can't stand the idea of another bout in the pool to make up for this lost distance. But a week later I capped the 100k, fittingly doing my last swim (2.5K) 100% alone from start to finish in the pool. It was like a lap of honor, or maybe it felt like a funeral. 

The challenge was within me. If I had set out to do this, really do this, I probably could have been the first one done. If I had made this my daily routine and only form of workout, I would have crushed it early and moved on. The fact that I missed weeks (and months) of swimming at a time while focusing on running just prolonged this stupid challenge. There were many times when I was the first one in the water, often the last, and occasionally the only. I swam before school, at lunch, and in the evening. I swam before and after runs and rides. I swam when it was sunny out and I wished I was out there. I swam when it was cold, wet, and dark and wished I was in bed. But like all challenges, showing up at the start line is half the battle. 

I swam 100k and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.

Boston Marathon 2023

 At 2:49pm on April 15th, 2013, two bombs went off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Three were killed (with a police officer dying later during the manhunt), and hundreds were injured. The race was stopped, and the city shut down for the week while a search was conducted that has been unparalleled in recent memory. While several of my training partners were there (and safely finished) at the time, I was in South Africa, ignorant. Only when I awoke the next morning and the news rolled in did I begin to understand what had happened. It would be nearly 10 years before I could fully comprehend the impact, after reading books and watching documentaries of that fateful day. However, April 16th., 2013 marked the moment I committed myself to return to Boston, undeterred by terrorism. One year later, I toed the line in Hopkinton and tackled the best 26.2 miles of my life. Not only was it a beautiful, powerful day, but I also ran my best time ever. It was my 5th Boston.

To mark the 10-year anniversary of that horrid day, I vowed to return to the Boston Marathon with my friends who were there that day. It would be my 6th Boston, but 1st in 9 years. To get there, I had to qualify, and doing so would take my best effort in many years. I did so in June in Minnesota, nearly breaking 3 hours. I ran several fall marathons, but none had the promise of my former years. Training in earnest from January on, I fought the darkness, cold, rain, and wetness of a Polish winter to prepare. I avoided illness and injury, but my miles and pace did not progress at the preferred rate. In March I flew to London to do a training run with my friend, Kirsten, who would show no mercy. He didn't, but I got a great first 20 miler out of it. I only felt better from there. My workouts never took off, but I never felt sore or tired either. I still had many doubts arriving on the line. It felt like my time to run fast was behind me. While I was happy just to be there, there was a voice inside that said, "If you are going to go to Boston, go big."

My flight to Boston, slightly delayed, left me heading to the expo Saturday afternoon. It was packed, and I hustled out of there, catching a glimpse of the memorial outside Marathon Sports. I did bag a quick jog Sunday before dinner. Marathon Monday arrived as usual, with a long walk to the bag drop, then out to the busses, and the horribly long ride out of town. As usual, Athlete's Village resembled a refugee center, this year more than ever as bags had to be dropped in Boston so anything on a person was going to be left in Hopkinton. It was the most rag-tag bunch of flannel, ugly t-shirts, and broke shoes you have seen at a major race. It all goes to charity, but fashion sense had long left the building. 

At the finish line but before the race

Site of the 2013 bombing. RIP. 

Just a reminder there is a long walk from the village to the start, and although I was in Wave 1, I was in Corral 8, the last. I was a long way from the line, and the rain came down as we started the walk. I shed the pants and fleece but kept the t-shirt until the last moment. Although the rain was present, it wasn't too cold, and the early miles of running kept me suitably comfortable. I made a promise to hold back in the early (and easiest) miles, and to my dismay, I ran the first (and easiest) mile a bit slower than goal pace. By 5 miles I was on pace but it really should have felt easier to go under the pace at that point, and I was worried. It was here I caught Lindsey, who was going for 2:54 and was a coral ahead of me. He was not feeling strong and made the call early to let off the pace. Just then, I blew a tire. My shoelace was undone and I pulled to the side of the road. My wet, frozen fingers, coupled with the super laces on the shoes made it impossible to get the knot undone. I called for help but by the time a spectator jogged over, I managed to get it set and was off, having lost 40-50 seconds. It took me 2 miles to catch Lindsey again where we fist-bumped and wished each other well. I moved on toward Boston.

I ran very in control for the next 5 miles as the rain had let up into an occasional drizzle. I figured there was nothing to do now but wait. But the anticipation mounted as the inevitable noise neared, and soon enough we were rolling past Wellesley College and the notorious scream tunnel. Articles came out in the week prior asking students not to kiss the runners due to disease control, but it stopped not a single girl from being out there. They were deafening, and in an attempt not to blow by too fast, I swerved over for some high-fives. The pace here always drops a bit and I crossed halfway in 1:28:30, exactly as I wanted. Anything over two minutes fast at halfway is said to lead to a blow. But on the other hand, it is a rare person who negative splits this course, so you have to have time in the bank. I chilled further, cautioning a first-time Boston girl from Canada who qualified in 3:01. She was a metronome, but I advised her to hold back on the downhill into Newton Lower Falls. We did, gained 8 seconds, and yet loads of people flew past, only to face their fate in the coming miles.

The Newton Hills make or break runners. Either you thrive or you die. Most die. It is the culmination of 16+ miles downhill followed by 4 miles up and then another drop. Statistically, Boston is a net downhill course and can be fast, but if you run it poorly, you pay dearly. The first of the hills is not bad - it is the longest but the gradual profile makes it runnable. I was through the first without losing a step. The 2nd hill is a bit steeper but the very runnable distance after the hill allows one to get back on track. Two down, two to go. The third is perhaps the crux; it is short but steep and you've now done two and Heartbreak is so full of energy you know you can pull it off. I felt this hill in the past, but this time it was benign. Only Heartbreak loomed. As I rounded the curve and started up it, I struggled a bit. I could feel the pace drop and I did not have the turnover. Perhaps due to the weather, the crowds - albeit still awesome - did not seem as thick as in the past at this section of the course. Still, I passed loads of people and soon I was over the top. I knew there was a false summit here and after a dip, I was on my way up and over the next peak on the way to Boston College. My pace in the hills was solid and I lost no time. I started the second scream tunnel into BC and it was loud. Here I was on the lookout for a former student and there she was, as promised, and snapped a brief video of me. I only just saw her at the last second and the video shows just how quickly I was passing spectators. 

I held back on the descent from BC as well, having heard (and experienced) the problems that can come from going too hard here. Still, we were inside of 7K and that was a good place to be. The crowds are pretty consistent and although there were no rancorous Red Sox fans out (yet - they would go on to lose), the energy builds as the city nears. The road is long and straight and it does get challenging to keep plowing forward. It is the anticipation of the end but with that unfortunate distance between you and your goal. But soon the famous Citgo sign loomed in the distance. The journey was nearly over. A quick calculation with 2 miles to go suggested I would make my time barring any major blowout. Crossing the 25th mile, the route takes a nasty little rise over the turnpike. This hill did not register in my memory from previous attempts, but I had read about it recently, having forgotten its significance. Sure enough, it stung and it was just long enough to change the stride. The only solace is that under this gigantic sign is the 1 mile-to-go marker. It is a welcome site. 

The last mile at Boston is not an easy one. The little underpass, which at any other mile would hardly register, gives a little bit of sting, and climbing out of that tunnel seems to take longer than it should. For those close to their mark, this can really disrupt the flow. When the mind says GO! the body might struggle to respond. Rising out of that dip, the best 6 words in marathoning bounced around my head: "Right on Hereford, left on Boylston." Unfortunately, it is uphill. My friends expressed feeling this significantly in post-race recaps and, while in retrospect I think my pace slowed, I was still passing people heavily. I had my time in hand, but many who started minutes ahead of me did not. Because of this, I was able to cruise down Boylston with little worry and let people go. I ran firm but certainly not with the same emphasis as before. However, I must say I stuck to the middle of the road, not dismissive of the tragedy on the sidelines of 10 years prior. Seeing the finish line is exciting at Boston, but it looms. While Boylston is probably one of the shorter sections of streets on the entire course, the finish line takes quite a while to reach from when you can see it. Giving the obligatory wave to the many fans that were screaming, and a solemn nod to the site of the bombing memorial on my left, I crossed the line. 2:57:11.

Very cold and wet after the race. 

With a howl of accomplishment, I had run under 3 hours for the first time in 9 years, since I was last at Boston. I didn't know if it was possible, but everything went right. My training never missed a day, and while I never ran all that many miles, I did workouts and four - 20 mile long runs and four - 50 mile weeks. As Kirsten says, "Consistency is key." Fueling was an experiment. I was desperate to try Maurten for something new. They were sold out at the expo, so I had to buy 1 Gu. But I had Maurten on the course for the other two gels. I missed the first handout around mile 11 and I was worried I wouldn't have the fuel to get home, but the last two gels helped. It tasted rough, but those, coupled with the shake to start the day, probably did help. Having heard good things about the product, I think it paid off as I never had a sour stomach, which is extremely rare. While my legs were sore, they never locked up. Even with Boston's 2nd half much harder than its first, I nearly negative split this race. Just 11 seconds off an even split with all those hills. I may have run my perfect race, never getting out of control, and always handling what was to come. Buoyed by this achievement, I floated down the road. But after the medals and the mylar blankets were handed out, Boston rebounded. A wicked rain began to fall, ice cold, and the walk to the buses was suddenly far less celebratory. Grabbing my bag, I began limping toward the Irish pub that was the meeting point for our group post-race. By the time I got there I could hardly move, and shaking with frozen limbs, changing was nearly impossible. I tucked into a couple of beers and Guinness soup, but the discomfort was high. We had no place to sit and I began feeling ill; the noise was mounting as more finishers and fans poured in, and we had no plan. I excused myself and stepped outside. Instantly I felt better. The cool air blasted my face and life came back into me. Taking the train back to the hotel, I showered and crawled into bed. Life returned, and medals around our necks, we headed out to the Irish pubs of Boston to bask in the glory of having run (and run well) the world's greatest marathon.