lobster harmonica

Tiptoeing off to the triple

Days until the race: 2
Current state of mind: freaked, but excited

So I'm done with my Tahoe Triple training, which was lighter than it should have been especially at the end there thanks to some late-in-the-game tendon issues (the peroneal tendon in my left foot/ankle started singing during a particularly hilly 18 miler, and even Scott the muscle genius can't quite figure out what's up) and a poorly scheduled ping-pong week of multi-city travel. My tapering was so steep as to resemble a full stop, but the good news there is that I'm ridiculously well rested. I've gotten 30 hours of sleep in the last three days, which has left me with near manic levels of excess energy; within 10 minutes of waking up this morning, I had watered all my plants, listened to a brief debate about the merits/demerits of the new Supreme Court nominee, compiled and consumed a fruit salad, and made my bed (complete with throw pillows). I think I'm ready to run. Or to be committed. But in this case that's sort of the same thing, I guess.

I'm heading to Tahoe tonight. Tomorrow night I'll meet the other runners at the pre-race pasta dinner, and then Thursday morning the three-day race begins. I'm going to try to "report in" each day, but not sure what sort of Internet connection I'll have. I'm also in the dark about the elevation/hill profile of the course. For some reason I thought it would be better not to look. Kinda goes well with the undertraining, I figure. And I'll see for myself soon enough. Gaa!

A hill specialist raises his eyebrows; a sprinter inspires

On Friday night I attended a dinner loosely attached to the SF Grand Prix, a 108-mile pro cycling race that took place on Sunday up and down and around the hills of San Francisco. The dinner was a benefit for the Davis Phinney Foundation. Phinney is still dubbed the "winningest" American cyclist. Probably the title belongs to him and not to Lance Armstrong because Phinney, in his day, was a sprinter - a breed of cyclists considered insane for the high-speed rough-housing they engage in while fighting to the line. Phinney is retired now but still fighting, only this time against Parkinson's disease.

The dinner was held at the SF Italian Athletic Club, in a square, high-ceilinged ballroom with long family-style tables and three big guys in thigh-length leather coats guarding the doors. There were about 275 people there, many of them retired cyclists out to show their support for Davis or current pros carbo-loading for Sunday's race. The tables were already filling when we got there, so we took seats where we could find them. Opposite from us were two guys, then four, then five, who were wearing identical shirts. We had landed across from one of the teams competing in Sunday's race, the Kodak Sierra Nevada team. Nice guys who probably thought I was a girly groupie until I started grilling them about Vinokourov and hill tactics and inquiring about races like the Tour of Georgia and Paris Roubaix (ok so I am a groupie of sorts, but an informed one). At the table to our right, a few chairs up, sat the Navigators Insurance USA team, wearing identical blue denim shirts buttoned all the way to their necks (Cesar Grajales, a Colombian climbing specialist, was shooting me some interesting looks, possibly on account of my bright orange pants). At the table to our left was the Gerolsteiner team, a rakish bunch of fashion-haired Europeans who, unlike the other teams, seemed pretty intent on getting sloshed; they stayed long after the other teams had left, the table in front of them filling with empty bottles.

Sitting closest to me at my table was Dominic Perras, who I later learned was the 2003 Canadian national road race champion and notoriously aggressive on hills. We chatted for about an hour, during which I let slip my Tahoe ultra intentions. He lifted his eyebrows. He knew the terrain. Here was a bona fide hill specialist, looking at me like I'm crazy. "That's nuts," he said. I gulped, and grabbed for my water.

The evening had numerous highlights, including the surprise appearance of Robin Williams, a rabid cycling fan. He swept in to auction off a bike and ended up launching into a 30-minute shtick. Also entertaining was Bob Roll, the bizarre ex-pro cyclist who helps commentate the Tour de France on OLN. It's hard to say which of the two was more manic.

The big inspirational highlight of the night, though, was hearing David Phinney tell the story of a particularly brutal day during his last Tour de France, in 1990. The tour had made it to the Alps, and as a sprinter he was naturally struggling in the mountains. He had slipped so far behind in overall time that he was teetering on the edge of being dropped. On this day, he was already 20 minutes behind, the last rider on the road. There were several punishing hills ahead of him, culminating in a final twisting climb up Alp d'Huez. He figured he was finished, sure to be dropped. But then he told himself, well, I'm here. Why not give it everything I have? And so he did. He went all out up each mountain. Fans who were clearing out turned with surprise when they heard him coming, dropping their coolers and car keys to clap for him. Finally, after several more endless painful climbs, he approached the finish line. Race organizers were already taking down the scaffolding, but his coach was still there. He crossed the line, and neither man said anything for several minutes. And then his coach said, "Two minutes..... You made it by two minutes." Davis explained how he is still, a a sense, living that day. He's still in a race to get to the finish before the time cutoff - only this time it's a race to find a cure for Parkinson's. As he told this story, his left arm shook uncontrollably, the disease having taken it over.

Sunday's race was beautiful to watch. Basso, Hincapie, Leipheimer - big tour guys giving away nothing on their faces as they pedaled up Fillmore, again and again. Dominic was in one of the early breakaways, and ended up finishing the race in tenth place. The winner was Fabian Wegmann - one of the Euro pack of Gerolsteiner guys getting ripped at Friday's dinner. A secret tactic, perhaps.

The flip side of flip-flops; some needed kneading

Days until the race: 38
Miles logged today: 3 (hills)
Number of times I listened to "Zombie" by the Cranberries on my iPod, pretending I was the lead singer, during those miles: 3

So until a few days ago I was wondering whether I could realistically go from marathon to Tahoe Triple training with almost no down time in between. And I was wondering this because ever since the SF marathon (read the blistering reviews, including mine on page 14) I'd been dragging. My stride had turned into a shuffle. My legs felt tugged downward by imaginary 10-pound weights. My pace was glacial going on sedentary.

Mostly this was my fault, not my thighs' fault. Probably it wasn't wise, a few days after the marathon, to spend a week dog-sitting a pouty golden retriever in Marin who capitalized on my guilt for leaving him alone during the day by taking me for punishing walks up and down brutal hills twice a day. Probably it was even less wise for me to agree to these death marches while wearing platform flip-flops.

I figured some of this was fixable. So I closeted the flip-flops, put new insoles in my running shoes, and encouraged the dog to explore the yard. That helped. I said 'no' a few times at work, which also helped because I'd been logging insane hours on projects that were, in the mental sense, marching me up and down some epic hills of their own. But I was still dragging. So I started thinking I needed some help, and beyond that some information. I started thinking: "sports massage." My friend Chris recommended I go to Psoas Massage & Bodywork. I got an appointment.

The guy who did my massage, Scott Schwartz, considers himself a "muscle detective" of sorts. I for one am ready to hand him a badge. Or a Nobel prize. Or maybe just a really nice fruit basket. With elbows and hands and some seriously skilled pressure, he turns up hidden things that I thought no one would ever know about my body but me, and a ton that I'd never know unless he told me. And he's a New Yorker, so he gives it to you real straight. The good news for me was that I'm much better off than I feared. Despite the fact that I do nothing to encourage my own flexibility or build anything resembling upper body strength, I've got more of both than I thought. That was a pleasant surprise. It also turns out that my leg muscles had not petrified as I'd suspected; they're more or less perfectly healthy, and, like the golden retriever, were pretty much just pouting (and I don't blame them). The less good news is that one of the muscles in the V of right calf is weaker than it should be, and might become the scene of some heretofore unfelt cramping, and that the real danger for me isn't overtraining but sitting too long at my desk; my neck and shoulders are a complete mess.

Massages that go this deep, turns out, are not without their painful moments. Scott did everything short of stun-gun my hip muscles to get them to relax; if my calves could express themselves, they would have been spitting with outrage. But I left Psoas feeling as if a giant reset button had been hit, erasing weeks of strain and sending me back to feeling like I did before the SF marathon. Onward it is....

Running into reenactors; a PSA re: my motivation

Days until the race:39
Current state of mind: Slightly unnerved by the number 39
Miles logged today: 16

So I ran by a renaissance faire this morning in Golden Gate Park. They'd built this huge encampment filled with pointy tents with medieval flags flapping from their peaks and towers and turrets and some sort of ye ole town square. Everywhere, blacksmiths, royalty, and bar wenches were getting out of their cars and streaming toward the encampment. As I passing by, a town crier, I suppose, looking very serious in thigh-high leather boots, velvet pantaloons, a puffy shirt, and a beard that I suspect he grew just for this occasion, climbed up onto a castle walkway and earnestly decreed something to the people, sparking off rounds of "here here!"s and "God save the queen!"s. It was a weird moment.

But I happen to have a soft spot for reenactors. These are people who have found a strange but interesting way to express themselves. And on days like this they are ecstatic, because they're surrounded by people who share a passion that most people don't understand. Mind you, I think it's pretty weird to don a period costume and drink mead and sword fight to defend your family's honor and whatnot, then afterwards drive off in your '98 Honda. It's kind of nuts, actually. But I get it. I get it because that belonging feeling that the blacksmiths and royalty and wenches were all high on together is the very same one I'm going to feel when I get to the Tahoe Triple pre-race dinner and meet the other runners. These will be people that I don't need to explain myself to, people who get why I'm there without even knowing me.

And this will be a relief, because the real reason that I'm blogging about this upcoming race is that I can't really talk about it with anyone. I tried that, and it turns out to be a bad idea. Tell people that you're running a marathon, and they say things like "Wow!" and "I've always thought about doing that" and "I ran one a few years ago, killed the knees but glad I did it." Tell them that you're running three marathons three days in a row and you get a much different response. A few people, usually athletes or athletic risk-takers of some sort, say, "Hey, great. How's the training? Let me know how it goes." This is a beautiful reaction. This is the reaction you want. But most people I've told, even some of my closest friends, have greeted the news with a long pause. Then they ask, in utter seriousness, if I'm insane. Or they ask "Why?" in a way that implies that they're exasperated. Or they get worried, wringing their hands and urging you to be careful. One person, somehow offended by the news, told me they "wouldn't allow it."

This is why I've stopped mentioning it. This is why I'll throw it all in here instead.

Here's the truth. The real deal. Telling people about a race like this isn't about hunting for approval, or trying to impress. Reactions like that are vaguely embarrassing; they make me feel uncomfortable. And it's certainly not about opening myself to judgment, or some sort of whacko cry for help. For me at least distance running isn't remotely about praise or approval or anything external. It's about a girl who was never an athlete getting to be an athlete. It's about reminding myself how unnervingly doable it is to accomplish a big goal if I actually throw in the effort. Effort pays off. Cause and effect. Running is a way for me to inspire me, to remind myself of my possibilities. So talking about a nutso race isn't a maneuver to turn the spotlight on myself; that would be a complete nightmare. It's much more innocent than that. It's about messaging my excitement, sharing a big crazy dream, and hoping for the kind of dismissive yet interested support that will make such a weird endeavor feel a little less lonely.

Countdown to ultra

On the last day in July I ran the San Francisco Marathon. It was my sixth marathon, and my least favorite course. Somewhere along the route, probably during one of the endless loops they sent us on to gain incremental mileage, I found myself thinking of what else I might do to appease the gods of endurance, who beckon to me regularly for reasons that are either inspiring or crazy: I have a soft spot for endurance. I have nothing but perfect respect for people who push themselves beyond the expected. Not in ways that are irresponsible and bizarre and fueled by adrenaline; I'm no yahoo. More like in ways that push the limits of what you can expect your body to do in one day, efforts that are fueled by  training and practice and a desire to just keep going.

At the race expo the day before, I'd picked up my race packet, which included the usual assortment of coupons for sports drinks and Jelly Belly samplers and brochures for upcoming marathons, triathlons, and such. One brochure caught my eye: an advertisement for something called the Tahoe Triple. Three days. Three marathons. A circumnavigation of Lake Tahoe, all on foot.

Well, that's nuts. Technically, that's "ultra," which is how running events that are longer than a marathon, even if the distance is gained over days, are categorized. Given the timing - the event takes place on October 6-8, which is awfully soon after my SF marathon run - it's probably not the best idea. The fact that I've never run an event anything like this makes it an even shakier idea. And yet...the gods of endurance poked down at me, knowingly, when I read about the race. Somewhere during the boring miles of the SF marathon, the idea lodged, and stuck. Two weeks later, I signed up. I'm now "in training" for the event, even though I have a knee-bucklingly minimal sense of what I'm doing.

And so begins the countdown to the Big Day(s), and my training journal. Three marathons. Three days. Holy crap. I can't help but think I'm sunk. But I can't help but be curious how I'm going to manage this one. Stay tuned.