RACE GOALS: EYEING THE RIGHT PRIZE

By Sarah

The unrelenting California sun, reflected off the pavement and sneaking behind my Oakley shades, makes me squint. When I turn my head to take in the beauty of the blooming mustard and curlicue grapevines—this is the Napa Valley Marathon, after all—all I see are sunspots. The supposedly flat point-to-point course had served up some longish climbs that sure felt like hills, especially after I went out too fast, hitting the half-marathon mark in a who-knew-I-could-do-it 1:53. My last roadside meet-up with Jack and 14-month-old Phoebe feels like it was yesterday, not 45 minutes ago.

Fortunately, I’m not alone. My good friend Stacy W. (aka SW) jumped into the race near mile 19 to run with me to the finish of this, my third, marathon, just as she did for me in the San Francisco and New York City marathons. And as in marathons one and two, after running with her for a few miles, I start to backpedal on my goal of breaking 4 hours. “Forget it, SW,” I tell her, going on a rant that’s in rhythm with my footsteps. “Trying to break 4 hours is stupid. I was a moron for thinking I could do it. My legs are killing me. I don’t care anymore. I just want to finish. For real, I don’t care if I break 4 hours. Really.” SW, a veteran of several 26.2-mile races, knows hitting the wall—feeling lead-legged, nauseated, and totally tapped out—can mess with a runner’s resolve, and I’m no exception. When we hit the 23-mile marker, she reminds me how I’d wanted to break 4 hours before, and been supremely disappointed at coming up short. She points out I missed my goal in San Francisco by mere minutes. She says I’m strong. She says I am looking good. (Liar!) She tells me I can do it.

I tell her she’s wrong. I inform her I’m not sure I can make it to the finish line, or even the next mile marker. “Marathons suck hard,” I tell her, spiraling down into a hole no forklift could pull me out of. “It’s stupid to run this far.” (For the record, I possess an extensive vocabulary, but after mile 20 of most marathons, “stupid,” “suck,” and several Parental Advisory words dominate my lingo.) I tell her, once again, I don’t give a s@#t about any goals I set out before the race.

That was then, this is now. And now, to quote myself, sucks hard.

 

I’ve run four more marathons since that spectacular, but typical, downfall, and my running has changed quite a bit since then. For my debut 26.2, as you know, I made up my workouts as I went along. For Rounds 2 and 3, I used training plans that were super-basic and didn’t include the intensity my body needed to see a sub-4-hour finish. I mistakenly thought I could get to 3:59 with merely a decent level of cardiovascular fitness, a mighty dose of adrenaline, SW by my side for the later miles, and an unfounded optimism I could fly through the race like I’d never done in training. What I almost always forgot was that pain and exhaustion catch up with me, and steal all the wind out of my running skirt, and leave me despondent, desperate, drained, and every other negative adjective beginning with “d.” (Dazed. Delusional. Dejected. Distressed. Dead.)

Now, thanks to endless loops around the local track, I can run faster. But even doing 6 x 800 meters more times than I can remember doesn’t guarantee I won’t lose my drive on race day—or in the days leading up to the start line. Take my most recent 26.2, the 2010 Portland Marathon, which was in October (I had run Big Sur—see chapter 1—in April of that same busy year). Even though this was my second time through it that year, I still followed my fairly advanced training schedule to the letter. Throughout the first 11 weeks of the 12-week plan, I talked and blogged, and blogged and talked some more, about my two-pronged goal on race day: to qualify for Boston, which involved crossing the finish line in less than 4 hours, and to shave about 2½ minutes off my personal record and run under 3:50. Given my familiarity with the home course and my legs, which still felt strong from my diligent hill training for Big Sur, I thought I had a good shot at reaching both. Plus, come on: It would be cool to PR in my hometown with fam and friends cheering me on.

What solidified my more ambitious goal was that the training partner I had recently found to share long runs with, Sheila, also had the fire in her belly to finish faster than 3:50. Her PR was 59 seconds—no, not one full minute—faster than mine so we had both come close. We were a well-matched pair, fueling each other’s dream as we racked up miles around Portland. Sheila, her husband, and their two sons, who were close in age to my brood, had recently moved to town from New York City by way of Vermont. A pharmacist with a warm personality and sly wit, Sheila was easygoing about our routes, letting me map out our courses.

One Saturday in mid-September, when it was a bit hotter than we would have liked, I ran the 2 miles to her house for the start of a 16-mile outing. We headed south toward Mount Tabor, an extinct volcano flanked by towering coniferous trees. As we loped down residential streets, our conversation easily moved from the DVD she’d watched the night before, to her husband’s quest to open his own restaurant, to my twins’ antics in the first few weeks of kindergarten.

Skirting the edge of Mount Tabor, we veered toward the Willamette River, which bisects the heart of the city. I drained the water bottles on my Amphipod, but we stopped for GU (me) and Clif Shot Bloks (Sheila) and cool slurps from ever-gurgling water fountains once we reached the waterfront. Fifteen minutes later, starting the slight climb from the river to my neighborhood, I started feeling overheated and slightly nauseated. We were 2 miles from my house, and my Garmin said I had covered almost 13 miles. (Sheila still had to run the additional 2 miles back to her house to complete her 16). I started daydreaming about running directly home, cutting my run short by roughly a mile. I silently clung to that notion for the next 10 minutes. As we got closer to my digs, I told Sheila my plan, saying I was running on reserves.

Sheila would hear none of it. “No, you’ve gone this far—don’t conk out so close to the full distance. Come on.” A mere three straight blocks from my house, she became the run leader, and made us turn right. She said we’d just go a bit east, zigzag up and down a few blocks, then head back west. “We don’t need to go very far to add up to a mile—not even all the way to Grant High School.” Grant, our neighborhood high school, seemed as far away as my twins are from attending it.

Sheila didn’t have to drag me, but it was close at times. Finally the digits on my wrist told us we’d made up enough ground. Sheila peeled off toward her house, picking up her pace, while I nearly crawled the final one-sixth of a mile home.

I should have realized then Sheila had stronger resolve than I did.

Run LIKE THIS MOTHER

EVERYBODY WINS!

By Dimity

These days, when kids get rewarded for everything from brushing their teeth to playing T-ball at recess, there’s a chance we parents, teachers, and coaches may have taken the whole you-rock! thing a little too far. Reality will hit hard when they realize that, in fact, they don’t get a blue participation ribbon for simply showing up to their job.

For us mother runners, however, there is no such thing as too much glory at a race’s end. Many (blinder-wearing) runners will say the only worthy race goal is a time goal. While I respect that opinion, I don’t believe it. Despite one’s best intentions and preparation, races rarely go as planned. Weather blows in. Your quads blow up. Your intestines blow out—and hopefully into a Porta-Potty. If I’ve trained and focused on one race for 3 months, then I miss my one, lonely time goal, I’m not going to be in a good place, post-race. Speaking from experience, I know there will be too many tears and too much rumination, which isn’t fair to me or my family, who supported me through my training. One race result does not define a training cycle—or me.

How do I avoid the finish-line drama? I embrace a we’re-all-winners mentality by setting a variety of goals. Some naysayers may compare this to a fish/barrel/gun scenario, but to them, I say “Pshaw.” According to Running USA, 13 million Americans crossed a finish line in 2010. Sounds like a lot until you consult the U.S. Census Bureau, which reports 308 million people reside in our fair land. Working the numbers, that means about 4.2 percent of all the people in the U.S. ran a race in 2010—and, don’t quote me on this, but I bet the percentage is actually lower, seeing that most (addictive-personality) runners don’t run only one 10K a year and call it good. So that’s a long-winded way of saying: You get to feel accomplishment when you finish a race, no matter how dismal your race was.

Back to this multiple-goals thing. Some coaches and exceptionally driven people do set multiple goals, but they’re usually both time goals, and they call them A and B goals. I like the sentiment, but how fulfilling does it feel to say, “I met my B goal”? It’s like dry humping: It’s fine, but you know you can get better. Instead, I prefer to describe my running goals as good, better, and best—and highly recommend you take a page out of my book (uh, not literally).1

GOOD GOALS

For me, these are time-oriented goals, like setting a PR, hitting certain splits, coming in under some finishing time, beating my husband (kidding, oh love of my life). I often vocalize one ambitious but achievable good goal, and keep at least one slower, but still acceptable, good goal in my head.

For instance, at a half-marathon, prior to which my longest training run was 11 miles at a pace that wouldn’t get me to a sub-2-hour finish, I mentioned I wanted a sub-2:00 finish to anybody who asked. But I also branded 2:05 in my brain, knowing that was more realistic and a little generous, timewise. I finished in a satisfying 2:02, nicely meeting a good goal.

BETTER GOALS

These smaller goals aren’t related to any strict numbers. Instead, they’re about the place I am with my running story right now, and how I want this race chapter to play out.

Mental toughness is, and will always be, a huge hurdle for me, so one better goal might be to not walk when I really want to. Another better goal might be to check in with my form (Am I standing tall? Taking small steps? Relaxing my upper body?) regularly. I could also make one for running a smart race: making sure I don’t go out too fast, eat when I should, drink enough fluids, and feel like I’ve given my all when I hit the end.

The beauty of better goals is that during the race I mentally shuffle through them, like songs on an iPod, stopping on the one that feels best at that moment. When I don’t feel like being mentally tough, I allow myself to walk but am sure to eat a gel during my brief stroll. Lookie there: a better goal achieved!

BEST GOALS

I have my good and better goals, which rotate from race to race, set in my mind before the race starts, but the best goal is evergreen: simply to get across the line, no matter how I look or how long it takes me.

I pull out my best goal when I’m running a longer-distance race for the first time in years; when my stomach decides it’s staging a rave; or when something out of my control—my menstrual cycle, a sudden injury, a killer course—is flipping me the bird. Then it’s time to adjust my perspective and remember not to be overly concerned that my footsteps are louder than a bass drum, or that my splits are more depressing than the national debt. “I’m doing what only 4.2 percent of Americans have the motivation and courage to do,” I tell myself. “That, in and of itself, makes me a rock star.”

As I mentally will the next mile marker to show up .75 miles early, I have a hard time believing that bold statement at the time. But as soon as I cross the line, you can bet I feel the best I have in miles.

Yet I was rock-solid resolute with the qualify-for-Boston and run sub-3:50 plan for about 80 days. Then, two-thirds of the way through the taper, something shifted. I broke loose of my mooring and felt adrift in my convictions. It wasn’t physical; my body felt fine. Nothing hurt, nothing felt overused. But hesitation slowly seeped into my system. I’m not sure why, but I had a nagging sense my body—and my brain—weren’t up for maximum effort. Maybe the memory of going the distance at Big Sur was too fresh in my mind. I emptied myself on that racecourse. Or perhaps my muscles, which had stayed strong and fresh through 24 weeks of intense training, led the charge. Maybe they were trying to tell me they didn’t have PR firepower in them. Or it could be I was just too much of a wimp to embrace the effort I knew I’d need to summon at game time.

However my unwillingness got there, it was soon omnipresent. It circulated through my body until it reached my brain. My very capable and fit resolve dissolved like a Nuun tablet in a bottle of water. Every day, I could feel the uncertainty building in intensity, and my desire slipping away. What had seemed supremely important for months now seemed insignificant. Why did I need to BQ and PR? Certainly qualifying for Boston was more than good enough, right?

As soon as I let that Beantown-is-plenty thought be fully articulated in my head, it elbowed out my PR dream, which didn’t stand a chance against that bully. Half of me, the fueled-by-bravado side, was disappointed at this new world order. I felt like I was wimping out, like I lacked the courage and grit other mother runners, like Sheila, have to push beyond self-perceived limits.

But my other more realistic half cut me some slack. In the days leading up to the race, I wasn’t merely eating pasta, visualizing a 3:49 finish, and taking it easy. I was on Another Mother Runner duty, hawking our book and tees and chatting with the tribe at the race expo. (I love doing it, but it’s not ideal the day before 26.2.) Plus, since the marathon was on my home turf, unlike all my other long races that required some travel, I still had to deal with everyday demands. Making school lunches, corralling the kids to bed, grocery shopping, doing laundry, and all the other wifely/motherly duties I don’t need to list for you.

The days before the marathon, I still hadn’t told Sheila my revised race plan. As she and I texted back and forth—Are you wearing arm warmers? Are you riding public transportation to the start line? Have you seen the weather forecast?—I kept wanting to actually call her. But to voice my decision would be to accept a small defeat before I even pinned on my race number. It was selfish, I know, to keep silent, but by that point, I was having trouble keeping my head in the game. Could I even BQ anymore? Hashing out race strategy with someone else, even Sheila, would have sent me spiraling.

Instead, I didn’t speak up until the starting line.

Sheila and I—along with thousands of other Portland Marathoners—crowded together under office building awnings, trying to evade the raindrops falling fast and furious on the downtown streets. I turned to my devoted long-run partner, and said, “Any chance you want to run just sub-4? I’m thinking I won’t go for under 3:50. Sub-4 is enough to get me to Boston.” Just like that, any remnants of my willpower washed down a storm drain along with the rain and brown autumn leaves.

A confused, somewhat startled look flashed across Sheila’s usually brightly smiling face. She shook her head, saying, “Uh-uh: I’m going to try to PR. Why would I change my mind now?” Somewhat disappointed I couldn’t win her over to my wimpier ways, I envied her acceptance to embrace the challenge to the very end.

 

The way Sheila and I felt going into that marathon reminds me that race goals are, in some ways, like a sports bra or a pair of running shoes: What fits and feels great on your friend might chafe or be too heavy on you. I should know, as I’ve had goals that run from gasping from start to finish to laughing along the way. Admittedly, I am driven by time goals, but as you can now tell, I don’t always stand firm on those convictions. My marathon goal that felt so right—and so brass-ring reachable—in July seemed like trying to touch the stars by early October.

Goal setting—and goal keeping—depends so much on what is going on in your life. Unless you’re a pro athlete, where it’s your job to prep and execute a race, the day-to-day always should play a role in determining what you want to accomplish in a given race. As much as we love it, running and racing add stress to our lives. If you don’t consider the big picture, the stress can take on a life of its own and suck all the joy and pride out of training.

Say, for instance, your husband is deployed overseas 4 months before your half-marathon; suddenly you have to do most of your training on a treadmill after the kiddos go to sleep. Trying to set a personal record at that half is probably not the best idea. (Unless it’s your first 13.1, then of course you’ll PR!) The year your oldest starts high school, your middle child heads off to middle school, and your youngest is suddenly struggling with his fourth-grade teacher is not the ideal time to tackle 26.2 for the first time. Opt for a shorter race or two in the fall, and sign up for a spring marathon, instead. Returning to racing after an injury? Manage your personal expectations and contemplate “pacing not racing” the distance. And, suffice it to say, any race done within 6 months of having a baby is not the best to pin many goals on beyond finishing with a smile on your face and receiving a slobbery kiss after the race.

Once you’ve set your goals, they cling to your brain like your preschooler holds her lovey at bedtime. Then, on race day, when the sun beats down too hard, your iPod battery dies, your knee tweaks near mile 7, or you wake up with a simmering sinus infection, you can feel your goals shifting and sliding out of your grasp. It can be tough to know when to let go and when to hold on for dear life. Remember that everyone encounters doubts and rough spots in races. When stinking thinking arises, try banishing it by taking in some energy or fluid. Your brain might be trying to shut down your underfueled body. As you fill back up, tell yourself that a few minutes of “This hurts; I hate this!” is no reason to toss aside the dreams and aspirations you clutched tightly during training.

TAKE IT From A MOTHER

DO YOU CONSIDER YOURSELF MENTALLY TOUGH?

“Yes. I have multiple sclerosis, and sometimes this causes me to lose gains I have made. My muscles get weak, or my legs get spastic. When this happens, I have to start my training all over again. But I have found that each time I begin again, the recovery time to where I was is shorter because I continually get stronger, tougher, and more determined.”

—DAWN (Favorite pre-run snack: a banana and a Hershey bar. Alternate bites between the two.)

“No. Not really. Fears prey on me disproportionate to reality. It’s been a habit for so long that they’re hard to shake, and that makes me feel weak.”

—HOLLY (Gets lost in books on tape during runs.)

“Yes. I ran a marathon while passing kidney stones. I won’t quit until I pass out, unless it’s raining. Then I will go to Starbucks and call it a day.”

—AMANDA (If she’s running fewer than 20 miles a week, she’s either “on vacation or nearly dead.”)

“I’m working on it, but definitely not when I started running. I’ve got enough runs under my belt now to know I’m not really going to die.”

—KATIE (Felt like a real runner when she had surgery and every nurse who took her heart rate asked, “Are you a runner?”)

“My mental game is by far my weakest attribute as an endurance athlete. On good days, I’m unstoppable. But when my mental toughness gets a crack in it, I fall hard.”

—TONIA (Owns eight pairs of compression socks. “That way, I can wear a pair every day if I want.”)

“Yes. I’ve done two tours in Iraq, finished a marathon, and given birth in a tub in my living room.”

—BETHANY (Favorite podcast to listen to while running: NPR’s Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me!)

“Absolutely! Giving birth to eight children will do that to a woman. There have been times when I honestly felt I couldn’t go another step, but dug down deep enough to suck it up and finish the run.”

—CATEY (Refers to those suck-it-up moments as a conversation with her “inner Jillian Michaels.”)

If a course ends up being dramatically different than what you trained for, modify your goals on the fly. This happened to me in the marathon Dimity and I ran in San Francisco. Yes, despite the host city, I didn’t prep with enough hill training. (I know, I know. . . .) When I hit the halfway point in 2:02, I knew a better-than-4-hour marathon wasn’t in my pocket that day. I wallowed in self-pity for a few miles, then told myself I was going to keep pushing, vowing to pass at least five runners each mile.

If the impediment is physical—a sudden injury or illness—let go of your goal and seek medical attention. Ashley, a badass mother runner who was also running the 2010 Portland Marathon, became severely disoriented and woozy near mile 25 of her first marathon. Luckily, her dad had jumped into the race to run the final miles with her; instead, he steered her toward the medical tent. It wasn’t the marathon finish Ashley had imagined, but stopping meant she was well enough to qualify for the venerable Boston Marathon in her next 26.2-mile endeavor.

 

The rain was still falling hard around mile 15 of the Portland Marathon. Despite it being after 9 A.M., it was dark as dusk as I dodged streamlike puddles along a flat, desolate stretch of highway. Two miles before, the face of my Garmin had fogged up—on the inside. I could scarcely make out the elapsed time; forget about reading my pace. I was running naked (read: no time or pace, not sans clothes). For the rest of the race, I was basically clueless to how close I was to reaching either of my goals. Around mile 21, my good friend and two-time veteran of this marathon, Ellison, handed me a fresh bottle of water and a packet of blueberry–pomegranate Roctane gel. We exchanged only a few words, but I knew her well enough to pick up a sense of urgency in her encouragement to stay strong.

I ended up qualifying for Boston by the skin of my teeth. As in 65 seconds to spare. (Alas, Sheila missed both goals, finishing in 4:02.) Obviously, I’ll never know what I could have achieved that day if I hadn’t let go of my under-3:50 goal. Given the lousy weather and my Garmin malfunction, I don’t regret not going for it. The speedier finish time felt like too onerous of a task, and I needed to throw it aside to let me reach my “easier” goal.

One thing I do know: By having a Plan B in place, I was able to savor my Boston-qualifying time instead of lamenting my missed A goal. Qualifying for Boston wasn’t a gimme, but it was more firmly in my grasp. My marathon pal SW wasn’t by my side that day, but if she had been, I wouldn’t have tossed my aspirations by the side of the road near mile 24, as I’d done in the past. Even though it got tough to lift my waterlogged shoes and command my feet to move faster, the ultimate goal wasn’t too heavy to carry the whole way.

Run LIKE THIS MOTHER

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR CHEERING SECTION

Given how noisy my kids are—can you hear them bickering from where you are sitting?—you’d think they’d be natural-born cheerleaders. But, surprisingly, they wouldn’t make the cut on any pep squad.

As I learned in my two home-state marathons, Eugene in 2009 and Portland the following year, my kids are struck silent when I run by them in a race. Maybe the pressure is too great: They can barely squeak out a “Go, Mama,” let alone something original or slightly inspirational. And my husband is forever stuck on, “Go, Champy!” (Champy is my sports nickname . . . long story.) I now realize I need to prep them very specifically for what I need during a race. Let my list help you, too.

SIGNS

Few things are more adorable or inspirational than a homemade sign held aloft by a tot on the side of a racecourse. Encourage your kiddies to start making them at the start of your taper. Trust me: If you leave it until the night before, the kids will be empty-handed on the sidelines; pasta preparation trumps helping with posters. Give your fans free rein with creativity, but emphasize you’ll be streaking by so quickly, you won’t be able to read more than a few words. Ten words max—five is better—in bold, bright colors with some eye-catching images (hearts and stick figures anyone?).

BALLOONS

When I visualize my family and friends standing by on the course sidelines, I spy them from a half-mile away, and we exchange meaningful, heartfelt comments before I even reach them. In reality, even when I know their exact geo coordinate, I frantically search the crowd for a familiar face—and often miss folks. If there are going to be a fair number of spectators, have yours hold a few balloons, a colored umbrella, or a flag so you can easily spot them. Sounds like overkill, but when you see the red heart-shaped balloons and know your fan club will soon erupt just for you, the trip to the Dollar Tree seems worth it.

PHYSICAL CONTACT

In races, Dim and I are all about high fives. Kids, grown-ups, friends, strangers: We’re not picky about whose raised hand we slap. There’s something about the resounding smack of flesh on flesh that gets us fired up. I’m even a fan of hugs from folks I know. That momentary reassurance and warmth is sometimes all I need to recharge my failing battery. With your family, plan in advance how much love will be exchanged—if you are intent on making your time goal, you might forgo a hug and kiss. You don’t want teary eyes to trail after you if your kids and hubby feel snubbed. With friends or even random spectators, make your intentions abundantly clear: arms outstretched for a hug or a hand raised high to be smacked.

CHEERS

Ah, yes, the all-important words they yell out. If you’re not picky like I am, simply encourage them to yell loudly and clearly, and to start by screaming your name or “Mommy” to grab your attention. But if you are a bit more demanding—I prefer “discerning”—let them know a few phrases or ideas that might get you fired up. In the first few miles of a longer race, a reminder of how much you’ve trained can help: “This is it, Mom. This is what you’ve been training for!” If your posse is positioned near an incline, they might want to yell, “Mommy, kill the hill!” In the final miles of a marathon, they can remind you, “You got it, Mom” or, “Pain is only temporary; pride is forever.” (Obviously, this last one requires either some serious coaching or double digits in age.) And unless they are at the mile 13 marker of a half-marathon, please, please don’t let them scream, “You’re almost there!”

.1 RUNNING BUCKET LIST

By Dimity

We’re sure another to-do list isn’t on your to-do list, but in case it is, we wanted to create a bucket list that goes beyond specific races. Might we suggest you:

 

1 The beauty of having the three-tiered goal plan is the answer you have when somebody asks you about your race. If you’ve knocked it out of the park, gush all you like. But if the outcome wasn’t quite as you’d had in mind, you can simply say, “I set some good goals, and I did even better than that.” Or, “I had some pre-race goals, and I achieved my best one.”