You Know You're Tapering When . . .

I have entered my third week of marathon tapering, now six days from the race, and only seven miles of running left before the start line.  How can you tell I'm tapering?  Here's how.

• I'm super moody.  In fact, on Friday I started crying for no reason.  Although maybe it was PMS.  Who knows?
• I'm (overly?) concerned over every ache and pain that rears its ugly head and threatens to destroy my race.
• I'm exhausted.  Recently every day has consisted of me spending as much time as humanly possible lounging in bed.  Wait.  Maybe that's what I normally do.
• I am forever checking and modifying my race list.  My list (like all of my travel lists) consists of the following categories:  "to do," "to buy," and "to pack."  Since I'm not planning on checking bags for my flight, I also had to add a fourth category, "to buy while there."  
• I'm obsessed with weather tracking for race day.  As they're predicting temps hovering around the 80-degree mark, I'm continuously strategizing and re-strategizing on how to adapt for a warmer run than I anticipated.  I have, however, instituted a rule for myself that only allows me to check the weather once a day.  Otherwise, it'd be every two minutes.  Gold star for showing my neuroses who's boss.
• Despite being hungry almost all the time, I'm constantly vigilant about exactly what I'm eating.
• Speaking of which, I'm eagerly anticipating and simultaneously dreading the approaching carb-loading period.  Starchy carbs are my food vice of choice.  So I always have mixed feelings when it comes to the last days before a race when I get to indulge some.  It's a treat to allow myself to eat almost all carbs for 2-3 days, but it does make me a bit more sluggish and weighed down than usual.  And really gassy.  Fun for everyone.  (Oh yeah, add in an increased salt intake due to the expected heat, and it's gonna be a hot mess of bloating.)
• I'm becoming increasingly selfish.  At this point, every action, performed by myself or others, is evaluated on how it will affect my race.  I might be becoming a monster.  (Also, see moody.)  (Also, see PMS.)
• I am fantasizing about my post-race meal(s) like crazy.  On my potential to-eat list:  pizza, fancy gastropub burger, steak fries, thick vanilla milkshake, ice-cold hoppy beer, crabcake eggs Benedict, dense dreamy bread pudding.  Oh dear, I'm overwhelmed with this food porn daydream.

 

Taper Pains

Last night, I broke down and admitted to myself that I have a mild case of runner's knee.  It's a dull ache that I've had crop up a bit here and there just below my right kneecap.  One of those simple overuse injuries that normally just takes care of itself as one's body adjusts to its workout regimen.  It hasn't really bothered me much until recently.  It's a nagging pain that I feel particularly when going down stairs, running downhill, before I've fully warmed up on a run, or immediately after I've finished.  But now it's become sensitive when I'm not even running.  And seeing as I'm now only 10 days from race day, I've started to freak out.  No, let me correct that.  I've started to:  FREAK.  THE.  FUCK.  OUT.

And what do I do when I freak out?  Ridiculous amounts of internet research.  Self-diagnosis.  Obsessive worrying.  Nitpicking and modifying what little is left of my training plan.  Here's my revised course of action.

I gave up my four-mile run today to allow an extra day of rest before my last long(ish) run of eight miles on Saturday.  If I'm up for it, I might replace today's run with a two- to three-miler tomorrow just to see how it feels.  In the meantime, I'm upping the ice packs to several times a day.  I even took one to work and used it a few times today, which I felt warranted a nice pat on the back.  Unfortunately, I left the ice pack in the freezer at work, so maybe no pat deserved.  (Luckily, I still have two more ice packs in my home freezer.  We like to ice around here.)

I'm also taking regular doses of anti-inflammatories every so often as I remember.  And as of right now--right this very second--I've decided to wear no more heels until after the marathon.  This is heartbreaking for a heel-struttin' lady like myself, but I know it's good for me in general and even better for encouraging the proper alignment I'm sure my spine (and knee) is craving.

I believe I'll be feeling okay in time for my final few baby runs next week.  I just feel like, if anything, it's easier to destroy my training at this point by overdoing it rather than doing too little.  If push came to shove, I could theoretically do no more running until race day and still be okay.  I'd be a deranged nutjob by then but physically okay.

So really it's just a waiting game right now.  A total mindfuck, but a game of "wait and see" no less.

And you know what's an even bigger mindfuck?!  In all of my research, I've found that it's common for runners to get new and/or exaggerated aches and pains during marathon tapers.  And not only in the "I'm anxious and obsessed" hypochondriacal way.  It turns out that apparently taper is a time in which the body is doing tons of microscopic tissue repair, which in turn causes real pain as runners' bodies rehabilitate themselves.  Who knew?

Which means . . . maybe I'm not doomed by an ill-timed injury after all.  Perhaps this is just my body doing everything it's supposed to do:  exploiting its tiny little muscle elves for a tune-up right on time and badgering me to chill out and slow down in the meantime . . . and driving me fucking insane.

2 Weeks Out: Embarrassing Things

Today is exactly two weeks from race day.  I have completed my longest run (22 miles), tested all my attire, gear, pre-, mid-, and post-race nutrition, and my updated playlist.  I've run in sun, rain, snow, ice, and wind.  I've had great, mediocre, and crappy runs.  And now here I am at the end, patiently awaiting race day.  Or trying, at least.

In an attempt to keep my mood light, positive, and silly in the meantime (as opposed to focused on my fear of spraining an ankle or being hit by a bus right before the marathon), I've compiled a list of embarrassing things I do on my training runs.  I know I'm not alone on some of these.  And others . . . we'll see.  And please note:  this is by no means a comprehensive list.  I'm sure I engage in many more embarrassing activities, running or not.

• Snot rockets - Before I became the more "serious" runner that I am today, I was disgusted by snot rockets.  In theory and in practice.  But alas, fast forward a bit, and I am forever blowing snot rockets.  There's just something about running, especially running in cold and/or wind, that makes it a necessity.  I have, at times, carried tissues, but it's such a pain.  Searching for them in pockets or pulling them out of my sports bra just to find that they're sweaty, I found it wasn't worth it.  Plus, I'm not into holding snotty tissue for who-knows-how-long.  And I don't like to litter.  So snot rockets it is.  I embrace it.

• Song lip-sync - I lip-sync to my playlist songs.  Hard.  With face-contorting emotion.  And as often as this happens, I realized recently that I tend to forget that I do it at all until I'm actually running and notice it in the moment.  It's kind of like a recurring dream where you don't realize until the the third or fourth time that you've had it that it's happened before.  What's most embarrassing is that sometimes I'm so into it that I have to question if I'm only mouthing the words or if I've been singing out loud.  I'm pretty sure that it's just mouthing.  But who knows?  At any rate, it makes me feel like a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race.  I'll just need to update some of my moves.

• Signing to myself - As a sign language interpreter, it's one of the hazards of the job.  In addition to talking to myself, I often find that I'm signing to myself without realizing it.  This happens even more so when I'm running for some reason.  I find myself interpreting the songs I'm listening to--or the podcasts.  Or just talking to myself in ASL.  So if you're ever out and about in the Portland area and see a runner hand-flapping with an intense and contorted face, odds are that it's yours truly.

• Nose picking - Well, kind of.  It's really more of a nose wipe, but with the extra girth of my fat-fingered gloves, tending to the nostril perimeter looks deceivingly like I'm trying to jam them up inside.  Add in the snot rocket situation, and there's a lot of nose "rubbing" that needs to be done.  I often wonder how many people think I'm digging for gold up there.  I feel like I can relate to Jerry Seinfeld on this one.

• Farts - It's a given.  Lots of farts.  Not much to say about it.  I only wonder if they're loud since I normally have my earbuds in.  At any rate, I can't hear them, and I'm running too fast to smell them.  So does it even really count?  If a runner farts in a forest and no one's around to smell it . . .

• Apparently peeing in public places - This is a somewhat new development.  Don't get me wrong.  I've had my share of peeing in public locations at times.  Hello, random Friday nights in my 20s.  And I've frequently stopped at an establishment to use a public restroom.  But only recently have I forgone modesty to pee on the side of the road during a run.  Last weekend it happened in my 14th mile when I squatted behind a bush at a park, and yesterday I went behind a lone semi in an empty parking lot at mile four.  I'm not sure exactly what this means, if anything.  Except maybe that my bladder's getting smaller?  Or maybe I'm just getting lazier about following the agreed upon rules of society.

Snow Makes Me Gross

Sure, I was more than pleased to have an impromptu four-day weekend.  I read, napped, snuggled, watched copious amounts of TV and Netflix.  And I ate like there was no tomorrow.  I'm blaming it on hibernation hormones because as unnecessary as the binging was, it felt like an unavoidable stipulation of being snowed in.  The City of Portland even texted me personally, no joke.  Well, it was a city-wide wireless alert that popped up on my phone:

See?  I was strongly urged.  After being strongly urged, I have no control over what goes into my mouth.  I even gained four pounds in four days.  Impressive, I'd say.  I'm guessing that a significant portion of this is water weight because . . . well, I need to think that.  That and the fact that as much as I consumed, I can't quite believe it would've added up to 14,000 calories (14,000 / 3,500 calories per pound = 4 "real" pounds of weight gain).  But who's to say, right?  Whatever goes on in a snowstorm-induced gluttonous haze should have no consequences anyway.

Regardless, today I got back to the real world and faced the sludgy streets for work and returned home for a much needed run this evening.  I felt bloated and sluggish for most of the day and was raring to go by the time I laced up my shoes.  After cutting down my mileage last week due to weather woes, and assuming a horizontal position for several days straight, I was aching to get moving again.  This was just the run I was looking for.  An easy pace, nothing crazy, but splendid.  It reminded me of a feel-good race following a well-managed taper.  God knows I had enough carbs stored in me to power the run.

It was a nice reminder that in the weeks to come, just around the corner really, I'll be on a taper once again.  But this time it will be massive--three weeks for the marathon compared to my usual one week for a half-thon.  Three weeks of decreased mileage, restlessness, and too much time to nitpick about dos and don'ts.  It's a troubling time for me generally.  But if today's run is any indication, I might come out of it well-rested with eager, ambitious muscles.  It might be just right.

Snowmageddon: Mostly Cons

Okay, Snowmageddon, you win.

I was supposed to run 12 miles this morning, but I cut it down to 10.  Actually, I almost shaved it down to five, but I got ballsy and went for a double-digit goal.  I was amazed at how a run, a city, a landscape could be simultaneously so magical and so miserable.  Magerable?  Misgical?

I did make it home without dying or twisting an ankle, and now that I'm home (in an overly heated apartment in a bikini and slouchy over-the-knee socks, no less), I'm ready to commence the whining about this misgical run.  I should've known that spotting more skiers out than runners meant something important, something like I should've brought my ass right back home.  That's 29 skiers to 8 runners, by the way.  And it's not like I live in the fucking mountains.  I live in a metropolitan area.  It's not even the suburbs.  Next time, I'll take the hint.

Alright, so here's the whine list:

• Just a general complaint to start off:  it sucks.  Every single step is a mind-boggling, soul-crushing effort.  I even contemplated taking a taxi back home.  As if taxis were even out in this mess.
• Apparently it's dangerous to inhale snowflakes through one's nose.
• Speaking of snowflakes, they are not soft.  At least not when they fly directly into my eye.  They're sharp and jabby.
• I didn't feel particularly badass to be out there, just crazy.  Or stupid.  I wanted to jump someone and steal her skis.
• I learned that after two hours of nonstop flurry-induced snot rockets, eventually it makes me pee myself each time . . . just a little.
• I felt like Lucille Ball in the episode where she gets locked in a freezer, frosty eyelashes and all.  Minus the crazy red '50s lipstick, though.  Maybe I'll save that for tomorrow.

 

Snow Runs: Pros & Cons

Okay, so Blizzard 2014 has officially hit Portland.  I was excited at first for some snow to change up the scenery, but after battling the storm in almost white-out conditions on the 2.5-hour drive home yesterday (only to go 12 miles), I was exhausted.  I knew I didn't have it in me to tackle the eight-mile run I had scheduled.  White-knuckling my steering wheel and squinting through my windshield had taken everything out of me.

Meanwhile, I'd been grumbling for the past several days about how tired I was.  Still apparently recovering from my 20-miler and working early and long hours had left me wiped.  So as bummed as I was to fall eight miles below my planned weekly mileage, I figured maybe it was the universe telling me to take it easy.  Couple this with the fact that I cancelled work for this morning and got to sleep in, I could easily consider this glass half full.

Today, I was booked for a 5-miler and made a very smart decision to head out before it started snowing again.  With the frigid run I had earlier this week and now the current inches of snow hiding all the curbs, I wasn't exactly excited to venture out.  But I'm so glad I did.

First, an admission:  it was hard.  Running in the snow requires a lot more work than I'm used to.  I've run in snow before, but that usually entailed it snowing while I was out and not many inches of it lining the sidewalks.  This was more like running in sand.  You've got to raise your knees higher to get your feet in and out of it, and it requires more balance not to slip and slide around.  It makes you breathe heavier to get enough oxygen.  And not to mention, you need more concentration to avoid the dreaded yellow snow and to figure out exactly where the curbs end.  It's hard not to be paranoid about face-planting into the street.

But the vibes were great.  It seemed like the whole city took the day off, and all the schools were closed, so everyone was out enjoying the fun.  I passed two different people skiing down the sidewalk, and whole neighborhoods were out sledding and innertubing down their hilly streets and at local parks.  The bars and breakfast places were already packed, and it gave me an urge to have myself a nice spiked eggnog upon returning home.  (Still contemplating that, though, since I haven't been brave enough to go outside again to buy said eggnog.)  At the end of the run, I even topped it all off with a traditional little snow angel.

Tomorrow is planned for a 12-mile run, and I'm a bit apprehensive since they're predicting ice.  More than anything, I'm terrified of the thought of being injured this close to race day.  Hey, waddya know?  I am now 30 days out from race day.  Now that's something to celebrate.  Might have to get that eggnog after all.

Wind Is Dumb

Sometimes when I talk to non-runners, I feel like I have to defend the act of running.  I'm often met with people commenting on how they could never run x miles, or how boring they find running, or how crazy it seems to run x times a week.  And mostly I don't care.  It's not my job to defend running.  The truth is most people can run x miles, and the fact that they don't want to or don't like to does not really interest me.  Everyone has his thing, and running just happens to be one of mine.  Whatever.

And yet, every so often, I have to defend the act of running to myself.  Portland is currently 27 degrees with gusts up to 41 mph (bringing it down to 11 degrees with wind chill, or 4 degrees, depending on which website you trust).  I was only out for an hour, but I immediately lost feeling in fingers and toes, and my face is so chapped it burns.  My knees hurt because I couldn't (didn't?) warm up properly beforehand.  And even tucked under a beanie, my ears were frosted and throbbing deep down to their itty bitty hairs.

I had to consciously remind myself that it's not running that I hate.  It's wind.  Stupid, stupid wind.  Because even through the misery of being blown to and fro, I still love running.  It's just my thing.

But wind?  Wind is dumb.