Seasonal novelties

Sometimes, as I've noted before, I write for my January self.

I think back to how winter walks were spent with shoulders scrunched up to brace myself against snow, wind and cold. In these first few warmer weeks, I amble around the neighborhood and take stock of how much more relaxed these walks are.

Soon, my awareness of contrasts like that will likely fade (at least a little). Before they do, I'll jot down a few of this season's novelties - not because they're particularly unique or surprising, but for my January self:

1) No surprise with this one, right? Our garden. I planted everything one week ago today, and when I arrived at the garden plot today after a weekend away, I saw that the purple beans were already three inches tall! I watched this process happen last year, of course, and I'm hoping that the sight of plants soon won't be such a novelty. But for now: still a small thrill.

2) The farmers' market. Minnesota's farmers' markets are underway, and while this is far from a summer-only activity, the markets' natural time to boom is summer. I stopped by a market this weekend to pick up a spearmint plant to keep on our patio.

At this time of year, the focus is on plants. Among the flowers for sale:

3) The grill. Again, far from a summer-only activity, but iconic on these warm evenings. We fired ours up this weekend for the first time this year (for caprese sandwiches) so my head is full of ideas now.

Wish's head is also full of ideas regarding the grill.

4) The patio. As the temperatures heat up, I tend to think of our patio less often. Right now being able to sit outside is a much-appreciated novelty, and I'm planning to remember that feeling farther into the summer. (Eating lunch outside also goes in this category.)

5) And of course: watermelon (and, soon, the rest of the summer-specific fruit).

(Wish fits well into our household. He loves watermelon, too.)

What would you write down for your January self?

A beautiful prize

"We brought you a present from Colorado," said my soon-to-be sister-in-law - is that right? it's Josh's brother's wife - moments after the family of four had finished a truly marathon through-the-night driving adventure.

She asked me to come out to their car to help carry it, and when I saw it, I understood why: it was the heaviest watermelon I've ever seen, bought from one of my favorite farm markets in their corner of the state, which is known for its first-rate melon production. (A cantaloupe also came with them!)

This is my soon-to-be-niece next to it for context. It really is about half her size.

Obviously, I was thrilled and got to work right away. My challenge: to take down the whole thing by the time our wedding ceremony comes around, less than 48 hours from now. I will need help. Any takers?

Marvelous Monday: Week 29

It's Marvelous Monday!

1) I seem to have conflicting goals in that I'd like to improve my 5K time but have not been particularly inclined to adjust my weekly mileage accordingly upward. That trend stops now! (I hope.) Six miles in the books this morning + a sunrise:

2) I cut up a gigantic, sweet watermelon over the weekend. There are few things more refreshing to me than watermelon after a morning run. (I feel like at least one-third of summer Marvelous Mondays include watermelon in some form. Maybe closer to half.)

3) Also in watermelon-related news, Wish has always been curious about watermelon but usually nibbles on a chunk and then discards it somewhere around the house. This watermelon must be really sweet, because he has decided it's the best thing in the world and scarfs it like it's on par with steak.

4) I'm working on Gone With the Wind, this month's classic book project. I'm really enjoying it, but you wouldn't know it by looking at my reading patterns. I've been reading it right before bed and average literally four or five pages before I fall asleep, even though I don't find it boring at all. I finally made actual progress this weekend, which is good because I'm not sure an average of four pages per day will allow me to return it to the library on time.

5) It's almost green bean and cucumber harvest time in our garden.

What's marvelous about the start of your week, Reader? Have you read Gone With the Wind? Do you stock up on as much watermelon as I do in the summer? Does anyone out there not like watermelon? Please share.

Urban Wildland race report

Short version: humid, slog, sweaty, the usual, etc.

Gosh, that's an enticing lede that really makes a reader want to read more.  Ready?

Longer version: Today was a rough go, but it was actually a good test of how much I actually love the Urban Wildland Half-Marathon--and the answer is a lot.  The race is in Richfield, a suburb south of Minneapolis.  I stumbled across it first in 2008, when I was in training for the Hartford Marathon, and it's good timing for lots of area runners who are doing big long runs this month to prepare for Twin Cities, Chicago, or other fall marathons.  In 2009, I ran the race again and set a big and also unbelievably unexpected personal record (PR).  That was the last time I ran Urban Wildland, so I have inflated the race in my memory to be the prettiest, fastest, most wonderful half-marathon in the Twin Cities.

Pre-race: I woke up and realized that conditions were warmer than ideal--but to be realistic and fair, my ideal won't swoop in until September or October. I ate breakfast, and headed over in time for the 7 a.m. start.  I was hoping to run this one hard as a benchmark for how my training is going this summer.  I had my fingernails painted, a little pre-race tradition originally conceived to remind me to maintain a pulled-together front late in a race when I sometimes feel like falling apart. Recently, it has spun toward reminding me to loosen up and have fun, which means the brighter color, the better.  Last night, it seemed to mean that the more a four-year-old girl would cheer on my color choices, the better.  (See right.)

Race: I was excited to see some of my running club teammates right around me at the start line.  They were shooting for a similar goal time, so I decided to hang with them for the first few miles.  Unfortunately, I knew two miles in that it wasn't a PR day for me--and actually, I should have known after my mile pre-race warm-up, when I was covered in sweat after 10 minutes.  At start time, it was 76 degrees with a 70 degree dewpoint--and almost worse, no breeze.  (Read: Sweatfest 2011, which is basically a summer-long bonanza this year.) I decided to scale back my effort from full-on race pace to relaxed long run pace, and then a few miles after that, choose the classic just-cross-the-finish-line race strategy.

Body: I don't really understand why you see this as a fun hobby.

Me: Sorry, Body, I'm at a loss, too.

But I felt better once I shifted into my new strategy.  I even settled into an okay rhythm later on the course, albeit after I glanced at a cab parked on a sidestreet a bit too seriously.  The other good news is that--PR or no PR--it's still a great race.  Today there were just under 1,000 finishers.  The course is flat and weaves between city streets (lined with great volunteers and spectators) and gorgeous, relaxing natural areas where it's hard to believe you're 15 minutes from downtown Minneapolis. It's also very spectator-friendly, and for me, it's a perfectly organized race: good t-shirts, pre-race communication, and event day logistics.

The miles ticked down, and I crossed the finish line.  My running club coach was at the finish and gave me a pep talk afterward.  I like this club!

Afterward, I went home to visit my mom, who is recovering from knee surgery.  She wanted to get out for her first post-surgery walk, so my mom and sister and I strolled over to the neighborhood park, which featured the most comfortable swing I've ever encountered.


My sister's body language indicates I have exceeded my time limit on the swing.

And then I was home and happily, firmly on the couch for the bulk of the afternoon, getting up only to refill my bowl of watermelon.  I picked a movie to lull me to nap, guessing that Julie and Julia was a not-too-captivating but pleasant choice.  Of course, I ended up watching the whole darn thing, intent on solving a debate with myself about who I love more: Meryl Streep or Stanley Tucci.  (Still torn.)

Happy Saturday.

This might replace the catamount paw as my sign-off.

6:03 a.m.

Oh, let me be clear: the sound of an alarm clock heralding an early morning run can be practically painful.

But as soon as I throw on my gear, half-asleep, and start the trot around my neighborhood, I am often rewarded with a sunrise like this one cooking on the horizon.  The best part about this morning's scene is that now, an hour and a half later, the sky is overcast, with storms on the way.  The sunrise feels like my little secret--although I guess I share it with the woman walking her dog who saw me, midrun, snapping photos like a maniac. 

Today was seven miles, gently, because tomorrow's long run with my club is going to be h-o-t and I'll need all the energy reserves I can get. I am armed with a watermelon, which I do not plan to carry during the run but do plan to have cut up and waiting in my refrigerator when I get home.

Memorial Day Weekend



Here I am, at one of my favorite markets in Colorado. 

 If I was nervous to start the blog writing about an anticlimactic marathon, I'm on the opposite end of the spectrum regarding this entry.  Watermelon.  It's fitting for me to start Memorial Day Weekend (in Minnesota, summer's unofficial start) with a note on watermelon.  I imagine suspect that I consume my body weight in watermelon in a typical summer - and probably even more since I started making annual summer trips with Josh to his hometown in Colorado, a huge melon producer because of its hot, dry climate.  

I'm no culinary expert.  My watermelon consumption usually involves either using it in smoothies or just devouring it after a hot run.  My most exotic use of watermelon was last summer, when I tried making watermelon, lime, and cilantro popsicles. (Hint: in slush form, this is one of life's true delights, assuming you are a lover of cilantro.) 

Yesterday, I went to Cub Foods with a five-item shopping list that did not include watermelon. Unsurprisingly, as soon as I saw a big pile of melons next to a big shiny sale sign, I found myself slinging one into my cart, completely forgetting that I had parked way, way on the other side of the parking lot.

Anyway, the long haul was totally worth it. I'm heading out soon for my first post-marathon run.  Can you think of anything better to find in the fridge upon return? I can't.

You're There

I'm gently wary of starting my first blog entry with such a mundane lead, but the road to marathon weekend in Fargo, North Dakota was a sort of anticlimactic one. Before I even began the Fargo Marathon, I had the odd feeling of wanting to be past the race. It wasn’t that I wanted the race to be over, exactly, but I didn’t have the typical slush of excitement and nerves in my mind. I was calm—or rather, I wasn’t feeling much of anything. I had put in the miles, missing just a couple of runs in my 18-week training cycle. When I look back on it, it felt like I was slogging through the Minnesota winter until practically taper time, when the major work was already done, and I was surprised to be so close to race day. 

I got to the FargoDome on Saturday morning plenty early, ate my breakfast and drank coffee before finding a spot where I’d camp out for 15 minutes or so before moving to the next spot. I was still expecting rain. Other runners had garbage bags covering them as a precaution. Many of us wore hats. It was a small, cozy race, and it was a tiny miracle to me that I noticed it was 7:10 or 7:15 and figured I should head over to the starting area in time for the 7:30 gun, instead of the usual incessant reminders blaring over the loudspeaker. I stood in the crowd, stretching and thinking about how my running had evolved since October 2009, when I ran my last marathon.

For three races in a row, I had badly wanted to run a 3:40 and qualify for Boston. My training indicated that it was a longshot but that if stars aligned gently, I could get there. I haven’t yet, and after each race, I’m embarrassed about how hard on myself I was about what went wrong and what I didn’t do well enough. Leading up to Baystate Marathon in 2009 or even during the race, I ended up with a stress fracture in my foot, with the subsequent six weeks totally off running and then a long, long, long, slow build-up back. It was frustrating and boring, and as I racked up magazine subscriptions for my long workouts on the stationary bike during gorgeous late fall weather in Minnesota, I remember thinking I’d do anything to go out for a run of any length.

As I recovered over the next year, I felt the marathon bug creeping back into my mind—for a spring race, not wanting to wait until fall 2011. All of a sudden, during some random and unspectacular run, I had an epiphany of sorts, the kind that you can read and hear about over and over but have to figure out yourself for it to stick. I could train hard and be excited for a spring marathon, but run it for fun, without rigorous time goals. 

This was liberating to me. I realized that I train for these fiendish races not just for the finish time, but because I truly love the process of preparing and training my body for a challenge like this. It’s really—excuse the cliché—a labor of love. I love conversations with Molly during a long run, I love my podcasts, and I love finishing a workout in the best humidity blizzards rain weather Minnesota can throw at me. I love seeing improvements in a workout from one month to the next. I love how strong I feel during a great run. It makes all of the early wake-ups, tired miles, and lackluster days totally worth it.

As soon as the gun went off in Fargo, all of the emotions that I had been shoving down cropped up, and I completely choked up for the first minute of the race, thinking about my recovery, the first run post-stress fracture, the slow buildup and all of my made-up re-injury scares along the way. After hundreds and hundreds of miles, here I was, on a start line I wasn’t sure I’d ever stand on again last year.

I settled into an easy pace with the hope that I’d find the first 10 miles very easy and be able to rachet up the pace in the second half of the race. By mile 10, though, it started to feel unlikely that I could hold that pace. My face was hot under my hat, but I didn’t toss away my hat for fear that the sun would pop out right away. Later, I found out that while the temperature stayed low enough—mid-60s—the humidity was 92 percent, and it didn’t rain for more than five or 10 minutes that morning. I touched my face, then my collarbone, then my shoulder, and all three were salty with dried sweat. I decided to start drinking more powerade and water as I started to run more by effort than pace, and each time I grabbed a cup of powerade, I tasted the salt in it and that tasted like paradise: a bad sign.

The course meandered along out-and-back sections around the city, mostly on concrete roads, with lots of great spectators. My favorite signs were “Finish before the rapture!” “You’re so not almost there!” and “Worst parade ever!” Some runners later mentioned someone dressed in a Grim Reaper costume at the end of the race holding a sign that said “The end is near,” but I was in such a fog of fatigue that I barely glanced at him and then didn’t want to see him again. There were bands at every mile, too.

The miles were ticking by quickly, but I just wasn’t having fun with them the way I wanted. My splits started slow and got slower, and my legs just felt heavy. All along, my goal was to pick up the pace halfway through, but instead I shifted my eye toward mile 17, when the single-digit mile countdown began. I started walking at every mile marker, and then more toward the end. I ate a freezie, a chunk of watermelon, and a lot of blue powerade. (Gross.) Everyone around me looked like how I felt, and the course intersected with the last few miles of the half-marathon, which faded to a lot of walkers by the time the marathoners overtook the course. The energy of the race started to lag and feel more like a grind—as most marathons often do around mile 23. Toward the end, I looked at my watch and figured out I could walk the last mile in 20 minutes and finish under 4:30, but then decided to try to shuffle under the 4:20 mark. 

As soon as I got to the FargoDome and the course began curving around the stadium toward the finish, I started to move more quickly and felt lighter. I noticed someone holding the “You’re so not almost there” sign with “so,” “not,” and “almost” crossed out, and I remember saying “Oh!” out loud. Among all of the cheers, I heard a man yell “385 yards to go!” and all of a sudden I realized I made it. You turn a sharp corner, and you squint into the tunnel into the FargoDome and see bright lights and a huge “FINISH” banner with a clock. I started moving as fast as I could toward the finish line and all of the emotions hung on me again in the last 100 meters—that I had done it, I came back, I finished this race. I had an impossibly huge smile on my face when I crossed the finish line and then, as soon as I stopped my watch, I burst into tears, for the first time ever after a marathon.

I’m left now with the feeling that what happened in the race itself didn’t matter. I worked hard to prepare, but what happened out on that race course isn’t so memorable or special to me, and it’s telling to me how sharply my heartbeat at the start and finish contrast to the dull feeling in my legs for the rest of the run. The start and the finish and what it symbolized are what I’ll always remember: the heightened joy and pain, how heavy a finisher’s medal feels on my neck, and the miles of preparation that helped get me to the finish. After every other marathon I’ve run, I’ve felt drained and disinterested in running for weeks and sometimes months. By the car ride home, I was already brainstorming about summer training and how best to prepare for Chicago in October. I had moved on.