Getting Schooled by Running

I haven’t been running lately. There – I said it. A risky confession on a running club’s blog, I know. I’m not going to dwell on what brought on this condition (or lack of conditioning, which is really more accurate) – the chronic injuries, the work schedule, the chronic injuries exacerbated by the weight gain caused by the not running... I’m just not running much these days, and though I am not happy about it, deep down I still have a confidence in myself as a runner that, ironically, comes from the running I’ve all but abandoned. You might say that my running has actually helped me come to terms with my not running.

I was not a lifelong runner; there is no scrapbook of my high school track meet clippings, nor box of race medals from my youth. I am one of those people who came to running later in life: in my thirties when the scale approached numbers I didn’t dare whisper and the Gap started running out of size numbers that fit me. In a span of two years I ran for more than 20 minutes for the first time in my life, competed in my first 5k, dropped 50 pounds, and trained for and ran my first marathon.

Indeed, starting to run as an adult has given me a useful perspective on running. Acquiring the habits of the sport and experiencing its pains and triumphs when my brain was already somewhat seasoned has given me an objectivity that lets me reflect about running in a broader way that goes way beyond blisters and proper hydration and verges on philosophical. Or maybe that’s just my navel-gazing nature, unleashed by the powerful meditative aspects of running. Either way, there are lessons I’ve learned from the ten years or so I’ve been a runner – and I definitely consider myself a runner now, though I have logged but 3 miles in the last month – that can be analogized to life in general.

Running teaches you about long-term planning, for example: how to break down a huge task, such as training for a marathon, into manageable parts. And running teaches you the necessity of patience, as you plod out the daily miles in anticipation of the big race. There are many more of these, as any runner will tell you, and some day I may succeed in compiling a list of these lessons, these running “truths”, if you will. But lately, as my Nikes gather dust and my knees creak from disuse, I have found one in particular giving me hope: the familiarity bred of practice. That priceless notion that, because I’ve done it before, I know I can handle it again. Any coach or anyone who’s trained for a race will tell you that the benefits of a training run are not just physical. Sure, doing the 18- or 20-miler builds your endurance and conditions your feet for the pounding of a full marathon, but no less important is the psychological benefit – the experience of having finished those 20 miles in training lets you know, and not just suspect, that you could do 20 miles again if you had to. (And what’s marathon but another 20-miler, topped off by a 10k?) It’s that psych-out factor that makes the practice so important, whether it’s running a marathon or giving a presentation or asking your boss for a raise. If you practice, and challenge yourself ahead of the game, you’ll know you can do it when the big moment comes around.
 

So as a year off from racing rolls into another one and the pounds continue to creep on, it’s that psych-out factor that’s going to keep me from losing all hope that I will run again. If I weighed almost 200 pounds once and managed to get down to a size 8, I can certainly drop 30 pounds now – I know that because I’ve been there before. I was a non-runner once, too, and then learned the sport and ran hundreds of miles – I know I can do that again as well. And this time around, I have the advantage of all of the truths I've picked up along the way.

I may not be a lifelong runner but I am still a runner. A non-running runner for the time being, but still a runner – with all of the experience and wisdom that entails. Running taught me that. - Uli. H.

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The Panama Canal – Running Spoken Here

Uli H.

It was dark. The palm trees were swaying in the damp wind when we climbed into the taxi. A red-white-and blue flag swung from the rear-view mirror.

“Clayton, por favor.”

“Clayton??” The driver shrugged as we showed him our map.

“Proximo del canal.” Next to the canal. The canal.

“Ahh, Clay-ton.” Eric V. and I looked at each other and back at the driver. Then he shifted his little Toyota into gear and we were thrown back against the seat as we pulled out of the hotel parking lot. Today was our first wedding anniversary.

We drove along the rain-slicked streets of Panama City, lined with muddy construction sites and high-rises that rivaled Manhattan’s and then past blocks of concrete apartments with bars over the windows and colorful fabrics fluttering from balcony railings. As we left the city limits, the street narrowed to two lanes, unlit and empty, and framed by dark foliage hanging over the road. It was 5:45 and not yet light out when we saw a bright flash in the distance – something reflecting off the headlights of the taxi. Running shoes! As we came closer we saw a handful of runners gathered near a folding table and knew we were in the right place.

“Esta aqui,” we told the driver, then handed him a twenty.

It was too dark to see, but we knew the Miraflores Locks of the Panama Canal were just past the grassy field to our left. Completed in 1914, the Panama Canal is a 48 mile waterway connecting the Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific. It can take a cargo ship 24 hours and two hundred thousand dollars or more in tolls to traverse the Canal, but it would take the same ship a week and a million dollars in crew wages and fuel to sail down and around the tip of South America instead. We were there, before dawn on our wedding anniversary, for more modest reasons – to run the Reto Powerade 5k, organized by one of Panama City's oldest running clubs, Corredores del Istmo, or the Isthmus Roadrunners.

Since my normal race concerns are just to finish the race and to not be last, and since only fifty runners had registered for this race by the night before, I resigned myself to being ultima and looked for substitute worries. Not a problem as there was plenty for me to get worked up about: though we had succeeded in actually getting to the race site – and early, no less – I wondered what would happen if no one understood my request for agua, por favor? and I passed out from the heat. Or what if I urgently needed a baño and didn’t understand the directions to get to one? And it remained to be seen whether Eric and I had succeeded, with our combined Spanish vocabulary of about three dozen words, to register for the 5k and not the 15k being held at the same time...

We stood around a bit awkwardly as the sun came out, me with a worried look on my face, until a man named Salvador spotted our NY Flyers t-shirts and came to talk to us. In English. Sal was an ethnic Panamanian from Indiana, via Central Park West, whose U.S. Embassy job brought him to Panama City for months at a time. He was training for his first NYC Marathon and Eric and I shared our experiences. As we spoke, I kept looking around; probably because there were fewer recreational runners here than in the U.S., everyone looked pretty fit. Yep, I would definitely be last, though I was relieved to see bib numbers in the triple digits – it looked like quite a few more runners had signed up for the race that morning.

Eric and I suspected that, being so close to the equator, the race wouldn’t begin on time. Indeed, at 6:15 – just fifteen minutes before the scheduled start of the race, the sponsor was still inflating the starting-line floaty thingy. The race start time came and went as we chatted with Sal. Eventually we lined up, and after some last-minute instructions we didn’t understand, the race began – about 20 minutes late.

The course took us through the former Panama Canal U.S. military base, past white stucco buildings with terracotta roofs that now housed business start-ups and relief organizations like the Red Cross and Unicef. Determined not to be left behind right away, I started out strong and my legs felt good. We quickly reached the first distance marker – too quickly I thought, until I realized it was for kilometers, not miles. When I passed a few walkers I relaxed and eased my pace a bit, and when I turned around, there were still plenty of people behind me. I would not be la ultima!

Scenery of Panama

After running past former officers’ quarters I saw the front-runners of the 5k heading back towards the finish and managed to slap Eric’s hand as he ran by, not too far behind the leaders. The look on his face reminded me that I was still heading down the hill I would have to struggle with on the way back. It was thus with mixed feelings that I saw the race turnaround and a water station ahead of me.

And then I actually saw the water. From a distance I thought they were little bottles, but no, they were sealed pouches, like clear little water balloons or those cute juice pouches I always wanted as a kid and my mother wouldn’t let me have. Except these had no straws. Hmmm... I had been hearing popping sounds all around me so I figured I needed to squeeze the pouch, but I didn’t want the water to explode all over me. (For the record, I cannot operate a juice-box without injury.) I tried pulling it open, but the plastic was too tough. Using my nails to tear the plastic open didn't work either. Or my teeth. Finally, frustrated and embarrassed, not to mention thirsty, I squeezed as hard as I could with both hands and the pouch expanded like a bubble and then burst in my face, leaving only a few sips for me to drink. That was enough, though, and my struggle with the reluctant plastic bag had distracted me from the beginning of the long hill.

Once deep into it, I compared the hill, as I do all race inclines, to Harlem Hill, and, as most hills do, this one failed to measure up; I could handle it. Along the course, giant versions of what we consider exotic houseplants in the U.S. grew wild on the side of the road. I distracted myself by trying to calculate how much the colorful Birds of Paradise blooming all around me would fetch at a florist’s in NYC.

Soon I was back on the flat stretch where the race had started and I could see the finish line in the distance. Eric, who was long-since done, ran with me for a little bit and then pulled off to the side to let me finish without confusing the race results; there were no chips or timing mats, but no tear-off tabs on our race bibs either. Instead, a volunteer stood on either side of the finish and entered a runner’s bib number into a device that looked like an adding machine just as the runner crossed the line. These tabulators were connected to the giant digital race clock; I suspected they could spit out the complete and accurate race results in a stream of paper tape once the last runner crossed the line.

We all got medals as we finished. Then I grabbed a cup of blue Powerade and walked for a few minutes as the sweat poured down my face. It was still early morning, but the equatorial air was oppressive and I regretted not having brought a towel. After we cooled down a bit, Eric and I spotted Pablo, one of the race organizers. With a combination of languages and hand gestures we managed to compare running injuries and tell him how much we’d enjoyed the race. He congratulated us on our anniversary and introduced us to his wife and daughter, who were also volunteering there. Then we chatted with Carlos, who we had seen at the registration desk the night before. They all spoke in broken English, we in broken Spanish. Still, we all managed to be understood.

Eric V. and Uli H., post-race

It turns out I was far from last, though this was my slowest 5k on record. And Eric fared even better, coming in 1st in his age group. (They always say the competition's not as tough outside NYC!) The best prize from this race though, was the experience; connecting with a community far away where the language presented a challenge, but a shared love of running made communicating easy. - Uli H.

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Half Is Where the Heart Is

With Mother’s Day around the corner and the Mets still within a shot of first place, why, it must be Spring! And indeed, not only are the days getting longer, but race distances are too as the temperate weather simplifies race-planning logistics and puts half-marathons – my favorite race – back on the local calendar. They’re long, but not too long, tough but doable; if Goldilocks were a runner, this juicy, hunk of a race would be her choice, too.

There are plenty of reasons to run a half, whether you’re looking for an alternative to the full marathon, or trying to break through your “spandex ceiling” of 10k or 10-mile races. For starters, look at the mileage – 13. A baker’s dozen. Like bagels. (No, I’m not forgetting the .1 at the end, but that’s like crawling from your couch to the fridge and back to get the cream cheese, so it hardly counts.) It's no wonder the Brooklyn Half sold out nearly two months ago. If you’re still not convinced that the half-marathon is just the most perfect race distance ever invented, in the interest of efficiency (Reason # 3!) here are just 13 reasons to give this more manageable sibling to the Big M a shot:

1. Scheduling. A long training run for a half-marathon is, well, another half-marathon; you can do that every weekend if you want to, and still have time for a life.

2. Variety. There are plenty of half-marathons on the calendar in NYC and nearby:

• The Stratton Faxon Fairfield Road Race keeps you moving with the promise of a refreshing post-race cool-down on the beach. This Connecticut favorite of NYC runners (easily-accessible by train!) starts in the suburbs and ends at the Long Island Sound, on June 27, 2010.
• If you need a little time to get up to speed, the very urban Bronx Half Marathon, is back to its sizzling summer spot on the calendar, just over three months away on August 15, 1010.
• But if you think you’re in decent half shape already, then shuffle off to the Buffalo Half Marathon, on Memorial Day Weekend later this month, where finishers are treated to pepperoni pizza, in addition to the more standard (read: bo-ring!) post-race fare.

These are just examples: the growing popularity of the half-marathon distance guarantees that some time this year, you’re bound to find a half that meets your particular requirements for climate, terrain, scenery, and post-race snack.

3. Race day efficiency. Speaking of snack, the manageable half-marathon distance means you can run a challenging race in the morning and still beat the Sunday Times crowd to your favorite brunch spot.

4. . . . where you can splurge on the Eggs Benny. That’s right: you run 13.1 miles, you burn 1500 calories, more or less. Enough said? (Check here to get your exact number.)

5. The comedy. To hear your non-running friends ask, “A half-marathon? How many miles is that?”

6. The drama. What’s more dramatic than running around a volcano? Or through the spectacular scenery of the Utah canyons?

7. The tragicomedy. Slip on your best tights and get your codpiece from the cleaners when the Bard’s birthday rolls around again next April. The Rotary Shakespeare Half-Marathon in England starts and ends at Will’s birthplace, Stratford-upon-Avon. Check back here for info on next year’s race.

8. The warm, fuzzy feeling. Because they are longer races, but more accessible than marathons, halfs are popular goals for fund-raising. Team in Training, for example, is still looking for runners for the Rock ’n’ Roll San Antonio 1/2 Marathon in November. Fred’s Team, Joints in Motion, and the NYRR’s own Team for Kids are just a few other groups that will get you to a half-marathon and help you train for the event in exchange for your fund-raising finesse. Some organizations will even get you into events that are otherwise sold out or closed to non-qualifiers.

9. That loving feeling. Studies have shown that running improves sexual performance. Other studies suggest that sex improves running performance. Don’t think about it too much – just do it.

10. Why? Because we like you! You can make those miles magical at the Walt Disney World Half Marathon in January, consistently rated one of the top ten halfs in the U.S. . . . But lay off the pixie dust, ‘cuz you know that junk’s illegal.

11. The awards. Most half-marathons give medals. When was the last time you won a medal for a race it didn’t take you a month to recover from?

12. The adventure. A half-marathon is a wonderful destination race.

Head up to Vermont for the Pittsfield Snowshoe Half-Marathon next March (yes, snowshoes), and still have the strength to hit the trails after the race (on skis.) I have a friend who doesn’t run 5ks because she says she never wants to run a race it takes longer to get to than to complete. So for half-marathons, unless you’re an elite, that gives you about a 100-mile radius around the city to work with, or East to West from the Hamptons (Hamptons Half on October 2, 2010) to Philadelphia (ING Rock ‘n’ Roll Philadelphia Half-Marathon on September 19, 2010.)


And if all that’s not enough, consider:

13. The accolades. Though it’s not a full marathon, you still get to use the “M” word, guaranteeing that when you tell people what you did over the weekend, they will be impressed!  -Uli H.

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In or Out?

There was excitement in the air at Tonic last night near Times Square, and it wasn’t just the summer-like weather or the free drinks and snacks, courtesy of the NYRR, though both the unseasonably high temps and the Road Runner-provided refreshments hinted at the real reason a group of enthusiastic runners were gathered there after work – to celebrate the ING New York City Marathon lottery.

In a new move, part of an initiative to build early enthusiasm for the November 7 race, Road Runners CEO Mary Wittenberg and WNBC sports anchor Bruce Beck announced nine of the lottery’s winners in a ceremony broadcast live yesterday at noon on the NYRR website. Then to celebrate, the NYRR sponsored after-work Lottery Parties in bars in every borough, open to lottery-winners and friends and marathon fans alike – part of their “I’m In, We’re In” campaign to remind New Yorkers of the unifying qualities of the NYC Marathon.

I grabbed my free beer and tried to unite with some of the lucky few at Tonic, but I found that the crowd mirrored the low odds – estimated by some to be less than 1 in 8 – of getting into the Marathon through the lottery. For example, Levi, who works at nearby Morgan Stanley with buddies Brock and Neil, was the only one of the three to make it in this year – and that’s only because he had completed the nine qualifying races and one volunteer assignment required for guaranteed entry.  Though he was initially motivated to go the “9+1” route after being unsuccessful with the lottery three years in a row, he agreed that all of that racing leaves him better prepared for his marathon debut.

Ryan, whom I met near the bar, was very excited when he checked his Blackberry during a meeting yesterday afternoon and learned that he had made it in – this will be his second NYC Marathon. Inspired to run the first after working as a medical tent volunteer the year before, he described running New York in 2009 as one of the “best experiences” he’d ever had. And though he’s planning on running the Chicago Marathon this fall too, he is adamant about wanting to do New York again less than a month later – “I’ll walk it if I have to.”

Eric, from Washington Heights, was also excited about having gotten in through the lottery, though as virgin marathoner, he was nervous as well. He started running only recently, having lost more than 20 pounds in the last year, and though he’s never run any races, he wanted to do something to challenge his newly achieved fitness. Eric entered the lottery for the marathon only after he didn’t get into the NYC half-marathon. “I guess it’s a bigger challenge now,” he admitted.

The enthusiasm was contagious. I talked almost as much as these runners did as I shared my own NYC Marathon experiences, as a runner, a spectator, a volunteer, a former resident of First Avenue, and of course, as a Flyer – I made sure everyone I encountered knew all about the Flyers and our training runs leading up to the big day. The big day that is now just under seven months away.

So are you in or are you out? If you’re not sure yet, check here. But it doesn’t really matter, because it’s true – we’re all in. Whether pace-leading with the Flyers at a training run, or lining up at Ft. Wadsworth, or handing out Power Gels at Mile 18, or high-fiving a friend or stranger along the way, or turning on the tv in time to watch the always-riveting finish, or just seeing the signs on the bus and the banners along the race route, we’re all a part of this, what the NYRR calls “The Largest Sporting Event in the World.”

I won’t be running this year, but you can count ME in. - Uli. H.

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"She’s SKIING!": A Runner Relishes Winter's Last Hurrah

“Look, Mom, she’s SKIING!”  That’s what the little girl said about me, which would be exciting enough since typically when skis are strapped to my feet I’m not upright long enough to actually be skiing.  But it was especially impressive a few days ago because I was not in Vancouver, or even Vermont or New Hampshire; I was in mid-town Manhattan, headed towards the running path on the East River.


It was almost seven years to the day that I had last used the cross-country skis that compete with my running shoes for space in the closet; that was in Manhattan also, after a late-season storm similar to the one that dumped over a foot of snow over the city this past Friday.  I’d been sliding my way through Central Park then, and was interviewed by a NY Times reporter who quoted me in her story the next day. 


The skiing was harder this time around; the 12 hours of hours of rain and slushiness that had accumulated before the fluffy white stuff had moved in made for a very uneven ride once my skis sunk past the surface.  Not to say that a smoothly-groomed trail would have helped me any – there was no smooth shushing going on and most certainly none of that graceful gliding seen recently at the Olympics.  In fact, as you can see by the photo, I wore my bright red NY Flyers jacket to make sure I’d be found in case I got stuck in a snowdrift.


I was getting a great workout, though – you can burn almost as many calories cross-country skiing as you can running, and without the impact.  Until you fall down, that is.  (Yes, some people fall down cross-country skiing.)  I could certainly feel a great stretch in my hamstrings and my arms.  In fact, my hands are still sore as I type this, from the death grip I had on my poles (to keep from falling down.) 
And then I hit it – cross-country skiing nirvana, or as close as you can get in Manhattan: a ¼-mile stretch of virgin snow carved through by the treads of a very big truck.  So big, in fact that the track left by each tire was almost exactly the width of my skis.  In another words – a packed trail!  It didn’t last long – to the credit of the city sanitation crews, by early afternoon, the East River running path was almost clean enough to run on.  (Indeed a handful of intrepid runners were seen hurdling snow drifts and picking their way around ice patches.)  I ended up spending almost as much time walking between snow-covered areas as I did actually skiing.  So I did what most runners do when they can’t find a place to work out – I headed to the local track, in this case at 10^th Street.  Certainly they weren’t going to plow THAT.  Turns out fourteen inches of virgin snow is nice, but impossible to cross-country ski through.  Made falling down softer, though . . .

It was on my way home from the track, skis hoisted over my shoulder, that I saw the young man with a camera bag coming towards me, notepad in hand.  I laughed as he approached; he was a free-lance photographer for the New York Times.  Turns out he’d spotted me because my bright red NY Flyers jacket contrasted so nicely against the snowdrifts . . .   - Uli H.

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